


The Language of Snakes

by FalconLux



Series: W.I.P. Collection [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Dark Harry, Drarry, Independent Harry, Intelligent Harry, M/M, Manipulative Dumbledore, Slash, Snake in Lion's Clothes, Suicidal Thoughts, Work In Progress, mentions of child abuse, rating will increase, slow developing romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 98,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6357139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconLux/pseuds/FalconLux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1986, Harry meets his first friend, a tiny green snake. That friend will change everything. - A retelling of canon with a darker, smarter, more cunning Harry in possession of a pet snake and a sense of self-worth. </p><p>There are some reworked canon scenes in the beginning, but almost all scenes are original after the first few chapters.</p><p>WARNING: This is a Work In Progress.  It is not finished.  It may never be finished. Read at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**Summer 1986**

Harry was working in the garden when he saw the tiny green snake, almost the same color as his eyes.  Casting a cautious eye back toward the house, he determined that he wasn’t being watched right that moment.  “You’d better get out of here, little guy,” he whispered.  “My aunt will take the spade to you if she sees you.”

The tiny snake lifted the top of his body up to stare at Harry, miniscule black tongue flicking out.  “You will protect me, large one.”

Harry shook his head slightly and moved down along the row of flowers to continue his work.  “I can’t even protect myself,” he muttered unhappily.

“If you protect me until I am bigger, then I will protect you,” the snake bargained.

Harry blinked at the little snake, certain that this was the weirdest conversation he’d ever had in his life.  He was pretty sure that talking to snakes wasn’t natural.  He knew that doing anything unnatural was sure to get him a strapping and a week in his cupboard if he was caught.  But this little fellow was just _so_ cute!  And he talked to Harry like he wasn’t a worthless freak.  “Don’t you have a mum worrying about you somewhere?” he tried one last time.  He had no idea if snakes even had mums that stuck around.

“I’m alone, large one,” the tiny snake said with such loneliness in his voice that Harry couldn’t help but feel bad for him.  They were both alone.  Both orphans.  He couldn’t make this little snake unwanted like he was.  Besides, the snake wanted him.  Maybe he could make this work.

“Okay…” he said slowly.  “I’ll try, but you’d better be really good at hiding, because I’ll get the strap if my aunt finds you in the house.”

* * *

They only made it a week before Aunt Petunia threw open the cupboard door, surprising him while his little friend was resting on his knee where they’d been talking.  He looked up at her in complete horror and she looked around suspiciously.  He watched her eyes go right over his knee without seeming to notice the little green snake, and then she just barked at him to get started on dinner and walked away.

Harry breathed a sigh of bewildered relief and looked back at the snake only to find him _gone_!  “Rhast!” he gasped worriedly.

To his complete astonishment, the snake appeared on his knee where he’d apparently been invisible all along.

“How did you do that?” Harry breathed.

“I am _very_ good at hiding,” was the smug reply.

* * *

 

**December 1986**

Harry sunk his teeth into his filthy blanket and struggled to stifle his sobs, which were only aggravating the blazing pain in his back.

He wished the pain from his uncle’s belt hitting his back was the worst thing that he was feeling, but it wasn’t.  His chest and his stomach hurt like his insides were being torn out.  That small, stupid part of him that still held onto stubborn hope that the only family he had may someday not hate him was crying out at the injustice.  He could feel it shriveling up inside of him.  Hardening and dying as it did a little bit every time he was forced to see that they would never care about him.

Dudley got a new bicycle for Christmas this year, and he’d been riding it in the living room where Harry was cleaning after Vernon had gone to the den and Petunia to the kitchen to set out the dinner Harry had prepared.  Harry had been on the other side of the room when Dudley had ridden the bicycle right into the Christmas tree.  It somehow fell over on top of him, and Dudley got a tiny little cut on his arm.  Dudley told his parents that Harry had pushed it over on him.

Like every other time Harry was punished for hurting Dudley – most of the times, he’d had nothing to do with it – Harry had gotten a beating so much worse than the usual ones.  When Dudley got hurt, Harry thought that Vernon went a little bit mad.  Every time, he wondered if his uncle would kill him.  Sometimes, he hoped that he would.  And as that increasingly small part inside of Harry died a little more, that wish grew stronger.  He wondered what he’d have to do to push Vernon into killing him next time.  No doubt it would hurt a lot, but then it would be over.  Maybe his parents were even waiting for him wherever people went when they died.  Maybe Freaks were welcome there.

“ _I smell your pain, Master_ ,” a small voice hissed near his ear, pulling Harry from his dark thoughts with the reminder that he wasn’t alone anymore.  He had Rhast now, the snake that called Harry “master” and didn’t treat him like a Freak.  He said that it was an honor for a serpent to bond with a speaker.  Rhast seemed to know a lot and very little.  Speakers were people who could speak with snakes.  Apparently, they were very rare and all snakes liked them.  Rhast didn’t seem to know _how_ he knew that, or he didn’t know how to explain it, maybe.  When pressed, he tended to say things like, “it just is” or “everyone knows this”.  Harry had given up.

The boy winced slightly as he shifted to run his fingers lightly over the cool scales of the only creature in the whole world that cared about him.  Harry was so glad for the snake.  He didn’t know what he’d do without him.  He couldn’t imagine surviving some of these beatings without the snake’s calming presence.  Rhast was growing fast though, and Harry hoped he was almost full grown.  The snake was already half a meter long.  Harry had found a little information about snakes at the school library, but he hadn’t been able to figure out what kind of snake he had.  The bright green snake was almost the same color as Harry’s eyes, and he was beginning to get a few small black scales too.  Rhast spent most of his time in the cupboard, which was close to a furnace vent and therefore one of the warmest places in the house.

_“They hate me, Rhast,”_ he hissed softly.  “ _I wish I knew why.  I know it’s because I’m a freak, but I don’t know why I’m a freak.  I just want to be normal like them,”_ he babbled, struggling to muffle his hiccoughing sobs without smothering his words.

The snake hissed a decidedly disagreeable sound.  _“Why would you want to be like them?  They are vermin.  They are worth only to feed their betters.  You are better, Master.  You are still small, like me, but one day, you will be bigger.  You will be great, and then you will destroy them, and they will know that you are better.”_

Harry’s sobs eased away as he listened to the snake’s words.  The boy loved Rhast, but sometimes he wondered if he understood humans at all.  How could he ever be better than the Dursleys?  He was just a freak.  “ _But I’m not better than them,”_ he argued reasonably.

Rhast’s mouth opened wide with his furious hiss and Harry would have flinched away from him if he wasn’t so exhausted.  “ _Lies, master!  They speak in lies!  You_ are _their better!  You are powerful!_ ”

Harry sneered slightly.  “ _I’m not…_ ”

That was as far as he got before Rhast launched himself toward him.  For a moment, Harry thought the snake would bite him, but those small, sharp fangs were closed inside his mouth when his nose hit Harry in the chest with almost bruising force despite his small size.  _“Here!”_ Rhast said forcefully before hitting him again, right in the center of his chest.  “ _Your power is here.  It is coiled tight because you are too young, but when you are larger, it will relax.  Like my venom, it is not yet dangerous, but it will be.  When that happens, you will be predator and they will be prey.  Every time they hurt you, remember that.  Remember that you grow stronger each day, just as me.  Every hurt makes you stronger.  Remember them all, and when they become your prey, make them hurt for every time they hurt you.”_

Harry thought about that for a long time.  He still wasn’t sure about being powerful, but maybe it was true.  He was getting bigger and stronger – though not as fast as Dudley because they never let him eat much.  But maybe one day…  Yes.  One day he wouldn’t be a kid anymore.  It seemed like it would take forever, but…  Someday he would be powerful enough to make the Dursleys feel every pain they’d ever given him.  That was the best reason to go on living that he’d ever heard.

“ _Okay, Rhast_ ,” he finally replied.  “ _Someday we’ll both be powerful, and…  And then I’ll show them just how dangerous a freak can be_.”

If it was possible, he’d say the snake grinned at him, though the not-yet-deadly venom dripping from his fangs made it a pretty scary grin.

“ _Hey, Rhast_ ,” Harry said after a minute.  “ _How big are you going to get?”_

Rhast made that raspy hissing laugh that had earned him his name.  “ _Very big, master.  Very big_.”

* * *

 

**July 1991**

Harry cursed under his breath as he drew the threadbare blanket closer around him, hoping to stave off the ridiculous cold that tried to sap the life out of him.  The icy coils of scales wrapped around his stomach under his shirt weren’t helping either, but Rhast needed the warmth more than Harry did.  He wasn’t doing well in this icy hut. 

The snake hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that he would be big.  The damn thing never stopped growing.  In the five years since Harry had found him, the emerald snake had gone from ten centimeters to a full four meters, almost crowding the growing boy out of his cupboard, and if not for his ability to turn invisible, he’d have been found out a long time ago.

Rhast claimed that his venom was strong enough to kill now, and they had discussed the possibility of the snake just biting all three of the Dursleys in their sleep, but in the end they’d decided against it.  First, Harry didn’t want to find out if Vernon was telling the truth about how horrible an orphanage was to live in.  Second, Harry had a lot of hurt to repay his relatives.  If they died now, it might save him a lot of pain in the future, but ever since that conversation with Rhast that had started him thinking about it, Harry had been making a lot of plans on how to repay his “family” for their treatment of him.  None of the ways were legal, and he spent a good bit of time also thinking about how he would get away with it and not go to prison.  Some of the ideas were impractical, but still fun enough to think about that he’d literally whiled away days on the fantasies while he was locked in his cupboard.

Harry had never figured out exactly what Rhast meant when he talked about Harry’s “power”, but he did know that the snake didn’t mean his body.  The snake didn’t have a word for what it was other than power, but he claimed that he could feel it growing, the coils relaxing so that soon it would be able to strike.  Though it didn’t make sense, Harry chose to take the words on faith, and take heart in them.

Harry looked at Dudley’s watch where it clung to his bloated wrist hanging off the side of the sofa.  In two more minutes, he’d be eleven.  Though the Dursleys never recognized Harry’s birthday, he always did.  It represented one more year survived.  It represented one less year before he was free of them.

One less year until he was strong enough to repay them for everything.  It seemed incredibly unlikely that he’d be able to keep them alive long enough to hurt them as much as they deserved, but he’d do his best.  Part of him knew that it was wrong to hurt and kill people.  It was that same part of him that had held onto the wish for the Dursleys to come to love him.

Harry thought that part of him was naïve, and he was doing his best to crush it out entirely.  Maybe some people didn’t deserve pain and death.  He didn’t think that he deserved it.  And that was the point.  It didn’t matter if anyone deserved it or not.  Life wasn’t “fair”.  If you didn’t want to be hurt, then you just had to be stronger than the people who wanted to hurt you.  Hurt them first.  Harry knew from painful experience that no one else was going to protect him.  The few people who had tried had failed or been talked out of it.  The Dursleys were good at that.

Expecting or even wishing for life to be fair had only ever caused him pain.  Someday, he would be powerful.  Someday, he would be the one deciding who was hurt and who was spared.

Harry glanced at the watch again.  Ten seconds.

He flinched as he heard a sound outside that didn’t quite fit in with the other noise from the storm that he’d been hearing.  He looked toward the door cautiously even as he felt Rhast tighten slightly around him, either hearing it as well or picking up on Harry’s anxiety.

Just as he was thinking that it must have been nothing, there was something like a footstep and then…

BOOM!

Harry flinched badly, and he felt Rhast all but fly out of his shirt.  Though the reptile was invisible, Harry could feel the snake at his side.  He could hear the quiet, warning hisses.

BOOM!  The pounding on the door came again and Dudley jerked awake, mumbling something about a canon that Harry ignored.

There was a crash behind them and Vernon came skidding out of his room holding a rifle, which turned most of Harry and Rhast’s attention onto the known danger rather than the unknown.  He’d never seen his hateful uncle with a gun before, and it terrified him.  He didn’t know a lot about guns, but he’d caught enough snatches of Dudley’s movies and games while he was cleaning to know that it only took one shot to kill someone.  It would only take a moment of anger for Vernon to squeeze the trigger, and all of Harry’s plans for eventual revenge would be blown out the back of his head.

Harry didn’t emerge from his terrified daze until the front door hit the floor with a resounding BANG.  Even then, Harry didn’t spare much more than a glance at the giant man with the pink umbrella that was now stepping inside.  The giant was freaky, but not nearly as scary as Vernon Dursley with a – presumably loaded – rifle.

The giant man said something about tea, apparently not the slightest bit afraid of the gun, which Harry thought made him extremely brave or extremely stupid – possibly some combination of the two.  Harry was too afraid to even take much pleasure in Dudley squealing like a terrified piglet as he leapt off the sofa and ducked around behind Vernon.

“An’ here’s Harry!” the giant said jovially.

Harry flinched and tried to hunch down and look as pathetic as possible.  The last fucking thing he wanted was to have attention drawn to himself when Vernon was holding a gun.  He chanced a momentary glance at the giant’s face and found that he seemed to be smiling.  He quickly looked at his uncle again, gazing up through his fringe and taking some small reassurance in the fact that the man still seemed focused more on the giant than on him.

The giant went on, saying something that Harry distantly registered as talking about his resemblance to his parents.  Harry wasn’t paying enough attention to know exactly what it was.  All he could think was that the giant was going to die, and he hoped desperately that he wouldn’t be next.  The Dursleys always got very angry whenever they talked about Harry’s deadbeat parents.  Apparently, they took it personally that the idiots had gotten themselves killed, thereby leaving Harry to them.  Harry didn’t completely blame them for that.  He wasn’t too fond of his parents either for getting themselves killed and leaving _him_ with the Dursleys.

“I demand you leave at once, sir!” Vernon shouted, his face turning frighteningly puce.  “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” the giant said disdainfully.  Harry flinched as the giant reached over the back of the sofa and jerked the gun out of Vernon’s hands.

Harry stared in awed horror as the giant got the gun away without being shot, then proceeded to bend it into a knot in a terrifying display of strength.  He tossed it into the corner of the room without concern.

Vernon squeaked, and Harry relaxed marginally as he turned his attention to the most dangerous person in the room now that Vernon was unarmed.  This giant didn’t seem to be a danger to Harry, but he’d probably be almost as deadly as that gun if he decided to be.

“Anyway – Harry,” the giant went on as though nothing unusual had just happened.  “A very happy birthday to yeh.  Got summat fer yeh here.  I mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.”

Harry’s stomach turned slightly with uneasiness as the giant of a man went on talking to him like they were old friends instead of perfect strangers.  This man had mentioned his parents.  And he knew that it was Harry’s birthday.  It was shockingly strange to hear someone recognize his birthday.  No one had ever done it before – even Rhast, though that was mostly because the snake didn’t seem to understand the purpose of birthdays.  It made Harry instantly wary.  He’d spent the last five years beating it into himself that no one would ever care about him.  That he didn’t need anyone to care about him.  It was a silent mantra that he’d adopted with every lash of his uncle’s belt, every fall of his heavy fists, and every swing of his hard shoes.  The fact that this man seemed to be insinuating that he cared by getting him a birthday cake, was extremely unsettling.

And he _had_ in fact, brought a cake.  He pulled it from one of his enormous pockets and when Harry didn’t immediately reach for it, he opened it to display a large, sticky chocolate cake with _Happy Birthday Harry_ written on it in green icing.

Harry’s stomach turned at the sweet scent.  So many years of cooking sweets only to watch his cousin and uncle gobble them down like great pigs while Harry wasn’t even allowed to lick the batter from the bowl had disillusioned him to the “treats”.  Instead of wishing for what he couldn’t have, he’d come to associate anything sweet with the sight of the swine consuming it.  It had been over two years since Harry had wished to taste the sweets he made.  He didn’t even eat the desserts at school anymore.

He pushed it away and tried not to think about it as he looked up at the giant man.  “Who are you?” he asked very quietly, glancing warily toward his family.  He suspected that he’d get a strapping later for asking the question, but one look at them and he thought it was likely they wouldn’t even remember it.  They seemed terrified and still in shock over that bit with the gun.

“True, I haven’t introduced myself,” the giant chuckled.  “Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an enormous hand and Harry instinctively inched away from the appendage, which could probably crush Harry’s whole forearm with one squeeze.

The giant – Rubeus, apparently – frowned at Harry’s move, evidently unable to understand why Harry might not wish to put his hand in that bear trap.

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said after a moment.  “I’d not say no ter summat stronger if yeh’ve got it, mind.”

Harry shivered at the idea of this giant man drunk.  Vernon was much scarier when he drank, though he didn’t get drunk very often because it seemed to make Petunia cross with him.

Rubeus looked at the empty grate with shriveled chip bags in it and he snorted.  Harry eased away as the giant leaned toward the fireplace, and he felt the comforting, cool weight of his only friend at his back.  He still flinched when a roaring fire suddenly sparked up.  He knew that there wasn’t any gas hooked up to that fireplace, so he was extremely curious as to how the giant had got it burning so quickly.

Despite the uneasy situation, he felt Rhast shift instinctively toward the warmth, and once the giant sat back, Harry followed the example, feeling his shoulders relax slightly as the aching cold began to abate.

It was a few minutes later before Harry comprehended what the giant was doing now.  He’d been pulling strange things out of his pockets for some time now, and Harry realized that he seemed to be carrying an entire tea service in there, in addition to a poker and some amber liquid that he took a swig of before he started fixing the tea.  Harry contained a flinch when he realized that the liquid must be alcohol of some kind.  The bottle didn’t look nearly big enough to get this man drunk, but who knew how much more he might be carrying in those enormous pockets…

The room was silent but for the crackling of the fire until Rubeus slid six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker.  Dudley fidgeted a little, and Vernon said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

Rubeus chuckled darkly.  “Yer great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’ anymore, Dursley.  Don’ worry.”

He held the sausages out to Harry, then.  Despite his misgivings, Harry’s ravening hunger had him devouring the offering so quickly that he burned his mouth and hardly tasted it.  He did have the presence of mind to slip one of the sausages onto the floor next to his leg.  Rhast preferred his food raw and bloody, but lean winters in the Dursley house had taught them that he could digest any meat, even if he did whinge about the taste.  He felt the invisible snake snap up the small morsel.

Another long silence passed before Hagrid finally gulped some of his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand before turning another too-warm smile on Harry.  “Lookin’ forward to Hogwarts, then?”

Harry frowned and glanced minimally at the Dursleys, who still seemed too distracted by the giant to pay him any attention.  “I’m not sure that I know what Hogwarts is,” Harry said carefully, keeping his voice low and trying to make it sound like a statement rather than a question.  Statements might get him a smack, but questions usually got him several smacks and then locked in his cupboard without dinner.

Rubeus looked shocked. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly, glancing between the giant and the Dursleys.  He was sure he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

“ _Sorry?”_ Rubeus barked and Harry forcibly contained a flinch to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to himself.  Then the giant turned his attention on the Dursleys though, and growled out, “It’s them as should be sorry!  I knew yeh weren’t getting’ yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud!  Did yeh never wonder where yer parents learned it all?”

Harry winced at being backed into a corner.  He strongly suspected that any answer he could give was only going to make things worse, but he’d been asked a direct question.  He didn’t have any choice but to answer or the consequences would probably be even worse.  “All of what, sir?” he asked, barely able to make his voice loud enough to be heard.

“ALL WHAT?” Rubeus thundered.

Harry tensed further.  His shoulders were so tight that he could feel a headache beginning at the base of his neck.  This was quickly getting out of hand.

“Now wait jus’ one second!” Rubeus leapt to his feet.  As he rounded on the terrified Dursleys crowded against the wall, Harry sank back closer to the fire and stuck one hand behind his back, resting it on cool scales and trying to estimate his chances of living through the aftermath of this mad night.  The Dursleys might be terrified now, but they were going to be furious about it later.  And Harry had no doubt that they would happily take it out on him.

“Do you mean ter tell me,” Rubeus growled at the Dursleys, “that this boy – _this boy!_ – knows nothin’ abou’… about ANYTHING?”

Harry closed his eyes for as long as he dared and tried to focus on his breathing so he didn’t hyperventilate.

“Nothing about _his_ world?  _His parents’ world_?”  Rubeus spun on Harry again – the boy barely contained his flinch – and the giant’s eyes widened as though begging Harry to tell him that he knew exactly what he was talking about.

Harry hadn’t been asked a direct question, but that look made it as good as one.  He hesitated a moment before shaking his head slightly.

“DURSLEY!” Rubeus boomed, rounding on them again.

Vernon was very pale now and barely managed to mumble something unintelligible.

“But yeh must know about yer mum and dad,” Rubeus almost begged Harry.  “I mean, they’re _famous_.  You’re _famous_.”

Harry’s brain picked that particular time – that single word, stressed twice – to decide that enough was enough.  All of his very rational fear that had been keeping him meek and quiet just snapped.  “ _What?!”_ he demanded incredulously.  His worthless, drunken parents were famous?  _He_ was famous?  For what?  Being the biggest freak there was?!

“Yeh don’ know…  Yeh don’ know…” Rubeus ran a hand through his wild hair and looked somewhere between incredulous and just plain lost. 

Harry was finding it both annoying and frightening.  “Don’t know what?!” he demanded, exasperated and stressed beyond anything he’d ever known in his life.

“Yeh don’ know what yeh _are_?” Rubeus said finally.

Harry glared at the man who apparently could not just come out and say _anything_.

Then Vernon found his voice and Harry flinched instinctively at the shouted, “Stop!  Stop right there, sir!  I forbid you to tell the boy anything!”

Harry silently added this moment to the list of offenses that the Dursleys already had against them in his mental tally.

Rubeus didn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated though – not that he _should,_ being a terrifying giant of a man who could make pretzels out of rifles.  He turned pure rage on Vernon and Harry contained a groan, certain that _he_ was going to pay for that later with the skin off his back.  The bruises from his last lashing – inspired by the arrival of the letters – weren’t even gone yet.

“You never told him?” Rubeus demanded, his booming voice trembling with rage that somehow didn’t frighten Harry as much as the beating that he knew would come from this.  “Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him?  I was there!  I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley!  An’ you’ve kept it from him all these years?”

Harry frowned, his curiosity trying to eat him from the inside out.  He couldn’t help but feel that he was so close to answers for the first time in his life, if this idiot would just say _something_!  And then he realized that the beating that would result from this night really couldn’t get any worse.  He wasn’t even sure that he’d live through it, but by the way Vernon’s face kept turning colors, he really didn’t think that any obstinacy or questions from him could make it any worse than it would be anyway.

With that in mind, he dredged up courage – or perhaps stupidity – he hadn’t known that he had, and opened his mouth.  “What have they kept from me, sir?”

“STOP!  I FORBID YOU!” Vernon yelled in panic.  Petunia gasped in horror.

“Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,” Rubeus dismissed them both.  “Harry.  Yer a wizard.”

Harry’s eager anticipation dropped into his feet in a cold, unremarkable lump.  “A wizard,” he said flatly, disappointment coiling unpleasantly in his stomach.  He had no idea what he’d been expecting, but he was abruptly convinced that this massive man was some kind of nutter.  He was going to get the worst beating of his life because of some lunatic.  Shit…

“O’ course,” Rubeus said as though it was the most natural thing in the world.  He lowered himself back onto the sofa with a smile.  “An’ a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained up a bit.  With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else would yeh be?  An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read yer letter.”

Harry stared at the giant, disgruntled and firmly stomping on the little part of him daring to hope that this was real.  He had learned better than to hope for impossible things.  It only ended in disappointment.

Then Rubeus handed over a letter identical to the ones that had started all this nonsense and gotten him that last memorable strapping.  No, not identical, he realized.  This one was addressed to _The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea_.  He frowned at it and wondered who thought it was funny to enumerate his sleeping place with such insulting detail.

When Rubeus just continued to stare at him expectantly, Harry held back a sigh and opened the cursed letter.

He read through it quickly.  He’d become very fast at reading from pure necessity.  The little time that he had to read during recess and library time at school and by the light seeping in around his cupboard door before the lights were turned out – when he managed to smuggle books from the library – had forced him to read very quickly.

Dumbledore was apparently headmaster of this alleged school.  Rubeus had mentioned Dumbledore leaving a letter for Harry at some point in the past.  He wondered about the man with so many titles, but pushed passed it quickly.  More than likely, this man was simply a kook, he reminded himself.  No sense reading too much into this elaborate delusion.

The letter was brief and explained almost nothing.  From what it said, he’d been accepted to attend a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, starting September 1st.  Something about an owl by no later than today, and it was signed by the Deputy Headmistress.  They awaited his owl?  What the fuck did that even mean?

He glanced quickly at the supply list, then blinked and looked again.  Well, of course he needed a cauldron.  He shook his head faintly.  This was the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to him.  “What’s this about an owl?” he posed when he looked back up to find Rubeus apparently expecting him to say something.

“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” Rubeus literally smacked himself on the forehead, forcing Harry to repress the urge to roll his eyes.  Then the giant reached into his many pockets and pulled out…

…an owl.  A real, live owl.  From his _pocket_.

Harry twitched slightly and put a quelling hand on Rhast, who had immediately perked up at the easy meal.  The snake really hadn’t been eating enough lately with the impromptu trip to try to escape the letters.  Harry had barely been able to keep him from being found, much less find a chance to feed him or let him go out to hunt.

Rubeus also pulled out a single long feather and a roll of that stiff, yellow paper.  With his tongue between his teeth, he put the end of the feather to the paper and started writing.  With a mental start, Harry realized that he was looking at a real feather quill, though where the ink was coming from, Harry wasn’t sure.  He read the note upside down as the giant wrote in blocky, childish letters that instantly knocked Harry’s impression of his intellect down a few notches.

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Given Harry his letter._

_Taking him to buy his things tomorrow._

_Weather’s Horrible.  Hope you’re well._

_Hagrid_

He then rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw it out into the storm.

Dumbledore again, Harry noted.  That little part of him daring to hope that this was real was growing just a little bit larger.  There were so many things about this man that just didn’t fit with anything Harry had ever known that it was making it a little easier to believe, though he was still approaching the idea with extreme caution.  He’d learned before his seventh birthday that hoping only ever ended up hurting him. 

“Where was I?” Rubeus muttered as he resumed his seat as though he’d not done anything unusual.

Vernon, still pale, but looking angry enough to make Harry instinctively cringe, stepped into the firelight.

“He’s not going,” he said definitively.

Harry felt his stomach sink.  Of course not.  Even if this madness was real, of course he wouldn’t be allowed to go to this school that apparently taught something that was never to be thought of, much less spoken of.

Rubeus just grunted.  “I’d like ter see a great muggle like you stop him,” he said.

Harry frowned cautiously and inched a bit further from his uncle.  “What’s a… muggle?” he asked, going still on the idea that he couldn’t possibly make this situation any worse.

“A muggle,” Rubeus said, “is what we call nonmagic folk like them.  An’ it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family o’ the biggest muggles I ever laid eyes on.”

Rubeus made it sound like something foul, to be a muggle, which made perfect sense if the Dursleys were shining examples.  Of course, if it only meant people without magic, then it described everyone Harry had ever known.  The conversation still going on in the room drew him out of his ruminations.

“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” Vernon snarled.  “Swore we’d stamp it out of him!”

Harry’s breath grew short and he felt something hot beginning to swell in his chest.  He normally only felt that heat while he was thinking of all the ways that he was going to repay the Dursleys while he endured a lashing or a beating.  “You knew,” Harry realized.  “You knew I’m a… a wizard.  That’s why-“

“Of course, we knew!” Petunia shrilled before Harry could voice the rest of his thought.

That was why they hated him.  Why they treated him like a slave.  Why they beat him.  The question that had been eating him alive for most of his life had just been answered.  It left him feeling so dazed that he almost didn’t hear the bitter diatribe Petunia had just launched into.

“How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was?  Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that – that _school_ – and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats.  I was the only one who saw her for what she was – a freak!”

Harry was too numb to even flinch at the word that made sense of his whole life.  Freaks were wizards.  He was a freak.  He was a wizard.

“But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!”

Oh, witch.  Female wizard.  That made sense.  And he could practically taste the jealousy rolling off Petunia in waves as she went on.  It was an emotion with which he was intimately acquainted, having grown up in Dudley’s massive shadow.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you!  Of course, I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as… as… _abnormal_ – and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!”

Harry’s mind stuttered to a halt again.  “Blown up?” he breathed.  “You told me they died in a car crash…”

“CAR CRASH!” 

Rubeus’ roar had Harry instinctively flinching again, jarring his stuttering mind into gear as he automatically focused once more to protect himself if necessary.  Rubeus leapt from his chair, filled with fury again, and the Dursleys scuttled back into the corner once more.  “How could a car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter?  It’s an outrage!  A scandal!  Harry Potter not knowin’ his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!”

Harry’s eyes widened.  _Every_ kid?  He remembered Rubeus saying that he was famous, but…  _How_ could he possibly be famous?  Weren’t famous people _always_ in the spotlight, followed around by the press?  How could he be famous and not know it?  It didn’t make any sense.  “Why does everyone know my name?” Harry risked asking.

Happily, the anger faded from the giant’s face as he turned to Harry again, and he suddenly looked anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said in a low, worried voice.  “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble getting’ hold of yeh, how much yeh didn’t know.”

Dumbledore, _again_!  Who was this man?  Before he could decide if he should press for details about his fame or divert the subject to this Dumbledore person, Rubeus was going on.  “Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right person ter tell yeh.  But someone’s gotta.  Yeh can’t go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys before focusing on Harry again.

“Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh – mind, I can’t tell yeh everything’.  It’s a great myst’ry, part of it…”

He sat down and stared into the fire for a few seconds.  “It begins, I suppose, with…  With a person called – but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his name.  Everyone in our world knows…”

Just like everyone apparently knew him when Harry hadn’t known the world existed.  “Who?” he pressed.

“Well – I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it.  No one does.”

“Why not?”

“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry.  People are still scared.  Blimey, this is difficult.  See, there was this wizard who went… bad.  As bad as you can go.  Worse.  Worse than worse.  His name was…”

Rubeus gulped, but no words came out.

Harry withheld a sigh of annoyance and didn’t let himself snap at the annoying man.  “Could you write it down?” he finally suggested.

“Nah.  I can’t spell it.”

Harry very carefully did not roll his eyes as his assessment of the man’s intelligence dropped a little more.  He didn’t have to spell it _right_.  He just had to sound it out so that Harry could sound it out.  For Pete’s sake…

“All right,” Rubeus visibly braced himself.  “Voldemort.”  He shuddered while Harry frowned.  It didn’t sound that scary.  It sounded French.  He didn’t know a lot of the language, but he was pretty sure “mort” meant dead or death, and “de” was of…  Death of Vol or Vol to Death, maybe… whatever vol meant.  “Don’ make me say it again.  Anyway, this – this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers.  Got ‘em, too.  Some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ‘cause he was getting’ himself power, all right.”

Harry forcibly kept his face blank, though he did glance slightly at the still cowering Dursleys.  _Power_.  Ever since his talk with Rhast five years ago, Harry had _lived_ to build this elusive power that the snake claimed he had.  Power enough to destroy the Dursleys.  To make a real life.  To never let anyone hurt him again.

“Dark days, Harry.  Didn’t know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened.  He was takin’ over.  ‘Course, some stood up to him – an’ he killed ‘em.  Horribly.  One o’ the only safe places left was Hogwarts.  Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of.  Didn’t dare try takin’ the school, not jus’ then, anyway.”

Harry mentally moved Dumbledore way up in terms of danger.  If people were afraid to even say Voldemort’s name, and Voldemort was afraid of Dumbledore, then he wasn’t someone to trifle with.  And Harry really wanted to know a lot more about both of these apparently powerful wizards.

“Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew.”

Harry frowned silently as he tried in vain to align his mental image of his faceless parents to being powerful or skilled or anything other than worthless.  He found himself unequal to the task and decided to just take that out of the equation for now and imagine Rubeus was talking about someone else.

“Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts in their day!  Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get ‘em on his side before… probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anything’ ter do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade ‘em… maybe he just wanted ‘em outta the way.  All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago.  You was just a year old.  He came ter yer house an’… an’…”

Rubeus pulled a very dirty, spotted handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose very loudly.

“Sorry, but it’s sad.  Knew yer mum an’ dad.  An’ nicer people yeh couldn’t find.  Anyway…”

Harry contained his frustration.  He didn’t care if they were saints.  All he cared about was figuring out his own past and how it was going to affect his future.  His parents were just two faceless people who had brought him into the world and then left him to hell.  He wanted to know why, but he suspected that he’d spent too long hating them to stop now.

“You-Know-Who killed ‘em.  An’ then… an’ this is the real myst’ry,” Harry was already getting sick of that word, “he tried to kill you, too.  Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin’ by then.  But he couldn’t do it.  Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead?”

Harry frowned as his hand immediately went to his scar.  What was there to wonder about when he’d been told that it came from the car crash?  Physical proof of his parents’ stupidity that had killed them and landed him with the Dursleys.

“That was no ordinary cut.  That’s what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh.  Took care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house even – but it didn’t work on you.  That’s why yer famous, Harry.  No one ever lived after he decided to kill ‘em.  No one except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches and wizards of the age – the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts – an’ you was only a baby, an’ you lived.”

Harry stared at the man, his face blank while his mind whirled with incredulity.  He was famous because he didn’t die?  It said something about how much everyone feared Voldemort that they’d make Harry famous just because he didn’t die when Voldemort wanted to kill him.  He’d been a baby, which made it seem crazy, sure, but it also seemed like it couldn’t have been his doing _because_ he was just a baby.  Voldemort must have screwed up somehow, and everyone credited him.  …and, he was apparently a freak among freaks.  No wonder he was famous.

And that’s when it hit him.  A blinding flash of green light, a woman screaming, and a man laughing.  Fuck…  He remembered it!  For the first time in his life, that old nightmare made sense.

“Took yeh from the ruined house meself, on Dumbledore’s orders.  Brought yeh ter this lot…”

The heat in Harry’s chest abruptly flared back to life, hotter and wilder than ever.  He’d always blamed his parents for dying and landing him with the Dursleys, but it was apparently this Dumbledore person who had done that.  “Dumbledore’s Orders”.  Dumbledore was the reason that Harry had been left in hell.  But then, his parents were close to Dumbledore.  Damn it.  Damn them all.  His parents, Dumbledore, this weird, giant man… 

“Now, you listen here, boy!”  Vernon’s bellow broke Harry from his thoughts and he tensed, expecting pain that didn’t come.  Instead, there were words.  He wouldn’t start hitting until Rubeus was gone.  “I accept that there’s something strange about you, and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion.  Asked for all they got, getting mixed up with those wizarding types.  Just what I expected, always knew, they’d come to a sticky end…”

Vernon was right, Harry dispassionately noted, hardly noticing Rubeus lurching to his feet again – he was doing that a lot.  Harry didn’t often consider anything Vernon said as possibly having any sense to it, but he could see it now.  Well, of course his parents probably hadn’t had much choice about getting “mixed up” with “wizarding types” being that they were witch and wizard.  But they had done something to make Voldemort want them dead.  Maybe they hadn’t been dumb enough to drive drunk, but they were still responsible for getting themselves killed.

“That’s better,” Rubeus was saying when Harry focused on the others in the room again.  Apparently, he’d subdued the Dursleys once more.

“So what happened to Voldemort?” Harry inquired once Rubeus was seated again.  He ignored the way the man shuddered at the sound of the name.  He might be afraid of it, but Harry hardly saw the point in being afraid of a name.  It wasn’t like the name itself was going to hurt him.

“Good question, Harry.  Disappeared.  Vanished.  Same night he tried ter kill yeh.  Makes yeh even more famous.  That’s the biggest myst’ry, see.  He was getting’ more an’ more powerful.  Why’d he go?

“Some say he died.  Codswallop, in my opinion.  Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die.  Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’ believe it.  People who was on his side came back ter ours.  Some of ‘em came outta kinda trances.  Don’ reckon they could’ve done if he was comin’ back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere, but lost his powers.  Too weak to carry on.  ‘Cause somethin’ about you finished him, Harry.  There was something’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on.  _I_ dunno what it was, no one does, but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.”

Rubeus looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, and Harry decided not to voice his thought about Voldemort having just randomly done something wrong that had nothing at all to do with Harry.  It seemed more likely, but the idea of this powerful man being on his side was too good to jeopardize it by asking good questions like that.

“Jus’ wait.  Yeh’ll be famous at Hogwarts,” Rubeus beamed at him.

Harry frowned thoughtfully, ignoring Vernon as he again dredged up enough courage to complain about Harry going to Hogwarts.  What would it be like to be famous?  Would people follow him around with cameras?  Would he be in the papers and on the telly?  Would…  Wait a minute.  How come Harry had never heard of any of this before?  He wasn’t stupid.  He read a lot.  He memorized all of his school books, even if he did have to get poor marks.  He even listened to the news when he was locked in his cupboard in the evening – well, assuming that he wasn’t all but unconscious with pain, anyway.  How could he be famous in a world that didn’t seem to exist?

Before he could form a question about that, the rising anger in the room drew his attention again.

“If he wants ter go, a great muggle like you won’t stop him,” Rubeus growled, strengthening Harry’s impression of the word “muggle” as a slur.  He was liking it more all the time.  “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s son goin’ ter Hogwarts!  Yer mad.  His name’s been down ever since he was born.  He’s off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world.  Seven years there and he wont’ know himself.  He’ll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled-“

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!” Vernon shouted.

“NEVER INSTULT ALBUS DUMBLEDORE IN FRONT OF ME!” Rubeus bellowed furiously.  He swished his umbrella down through the air to point at Dudley.  There was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot, hand clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain.  When he turned his back on them, Harry clearly saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Harry watched the scene in silence and made a mental note to never insult Albus Dumbledore in front of Rubeus Hagrid.  Harry may instinctively hate the arsehole that sent him to the Dursleys, but he was very good at not saying what he really thought of people.  He’d never have survived the Dursleys if not.

“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” Rubeus was muttering to himself while Vernon and Petunia chased their slightly more pig-like son around the room trying to calm him and determine the damage.  “But it didn’t work anyway.  Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn’t much left to do.”

Harry smirked slightly.  It was quite funny, though he did suspect that that little detail sticking off Dudley’s butt might just be what pushed Vernon from a beating to homicide once Rubeus was gone.

“ _If he gets carried away, I’ll bite him,”_ Rhast hissed right next to Harry’s ear, the pandemonium more than enough to cover the quiet sound.

Harry was prevented from responding by the fact that Hagrid was now focused on him again.

“Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts.  I’m – er – not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’.  I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff – one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take the job…”

Harry wondered why the man wasn’t supposed to be doing magic, but he wanted Rubeus to stay on his side too much to badger him with questions like that.  Besides, it seemed like a good thing if Harry was keeping one of this man’s secrets.  It would make Rubeus trust him more, and be more amenable to doing maybe not strictly legal favors for him in return.  So he just nodded and smiled his best shy smile, “Of course.”

Rubeus gave him a beaming smile in return and tossed his coat at him.  “You can kip under that.  Don’ mind if it wriggles a bit.  I think I still got a couple o’ dormice in one o’ the pockets.”

“Why are there mice in your pockets?” Harry asked curiously.

“Fer the owl, o’ course,” Rubeus said as though it should be obvious.

Harry just nodded along.  If the mice were intended as food, then they may as well be food.  He knew that Rhast had come to the same conclusion as he was already sniffing around for the pocket with mice in it while Harry tried to shield any suspicious movement from view.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This chapter contains some material quoted or paraphrased from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, chapter 5. I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money from this work of fiction.

* * *

**July 1991**

Harry woke to the familiar weight of Rhast snuggled against his side, one heavy coil wrapped loosely around his arm and a couple more tangled in his legs.  The snake’s head was nestled into his neck.  He smiled faintly.  He didn’t have to worry about rolling over and crushing the snake in the night as he had when Rhast had first come to live with him.  Now, he sometimes worried about the snake crushing _him_ in the night.  And his growth had yet to show any sign of slowing.  He’d been steadily increasing about two-thirds of a meter every year since Harry had befriended him.

And then three things that were _not_ normal shook him from his thoughts about his only friend.  First.  It was too bright.  His cupboard was always dark.  Since he’d been moved into Dudley’s spare bedroom, it was brighter, but not this bright with the one small window that was always kept covered so the neighbors wouldn’t see anything “freaky”.  He preferred it shut at night anyway.  He wasn’t used to sleeping with the street light streaming in.

Second.  The smell was all wrong.  His nose was full of dust and old leather and something else only vaguely recognized.  Third, it was too cold.  The cupboard was always stifling hot.  The bedroom, a bit less, but never this cold.  Certainly not in summer.  It wasn’t freezing, but certainly cool.

Another thing was a strange tapping noise.

His sleepy daze was abruptly dashed away when the previous night came flooding back.  His eyes shot open and his hand automatically found his glasses and stuffed them onto his face.  He sat up and found Rubeus unconscious, sprawled across the sofa that looked tiny compared to him.  Sunlight was streaming into the room. 

_Tap, tap, tap._

And there was… an _owl_ tapping at the window.

Remembering that Rubeus had sent an owl out last night with a message, he thought this might be something like that, so he disentangled the snake from his limbs – getting a sleepy hiss of protest for his efforts – and went to open the window.

The owl immediately swooped inside and dropped the newspaper that it carried on top of the unconscious giant – who did not so much as stir.

Then the owl set upon Rubeus’ coat, pecking at it.

Eyes widening in horror, Harry rushed back across the room, only to arrive a second too late.

“ _Rhast!  You can’t eat these owls!”_ Harry hissed nervously at the reptile currently crushing the bird and working it down his throat.  Harry sighed in exasperation and looked worriedly at Rubeus, who was still sleeping.  Once the snake had swallowed the bird completely, Harry leveled his unrepentant friend with a glare.  “ _Ask before you eat, would you?!  That was a trained owl!  It might have been someone’s pet!”_

The snake swished his tail in something Harry had learned to interpret as a kind of snake shrug.

Harry would have liked to say something more, but Rubeus finally seemed to be stirring.

He sat up with a loud yawn and a stretch, then blinked at the paper in his lap.  “Hm?  Oh.  Yeh paid the owl?”

So that must be why it went for the coat.  “Yep,” Harry casually lied, moving back to the window to close it.  Hopefully, Rubeus wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t missing any money.

“Well, best be off, Harry.  Lots ter do today.  Gotta get up ter London an’ buy all yer stuff fer school.”

That brought to mind a rather significant problem.  Harry frowned warily.  “Ah, sir…”

“Hagrid,” the man chuckled while he pulled on his boots. 

“Excuse me?”

“Me name.  Call me Hagrid.  Everyone does.”

Harry nodded, “Mr. Hagrid…”

Another chuckle interrupted him.  “Not ‘Mr.’, Harry.  Jus’ Hagrid.”

Harry forced himself to smile politely even though he was getting a bit annoyed.  He had something important to ask, and the man couldn’t stop going on about his name.  “Hagrid,” he corrected.  “I was wondering…  You said that my name has been down for Hogwarts since I was born, but I don’t have any money.  Is there some sort of scholarship…?”  Vernon and Petunia certainly wouldn’t be paying.

“Oh, don’ worry ‘bout that, Harry,” Rubeus – or Hagrid or whatever – dismissed as he stood up and scratched at his head.  “D’yeh think yer parents didn’ leave yeh anything?”

“Oh,” Harry blinked, trying not to get too excited.  It was unlikely to be a _lot_ after all, but it really did feel good to think that he had something of his own.  Hagrid had said something about the house being destroyed, so that was probably a lot of it gone right there.  If it was enough to get him through – what had Hagrid said? – seven years of wizarding school, then he could start making his own.

“Have a sausage.  They’re not bad cold.  An’ I wouldn’ say no to a bit o’ yer birthday cake, neither.”

Harry blinked and nodded quickly as he located the cake for Hagrid, trying not to smell it, and helped himself to the sausages.  Warm or cold, they were a lot better than what Harry was used to getting.  When he was permitted to eat, it was always cold, and usually a bit that was burned – not that the food was often burned when he was cooking – or some that had fallen on the floor.  Sometimes it was what he could snitch out of the bin when no one was looking.

“So I have some kind of inheritance?” he asked while he ate.

“A vault.  At Gringotts.”

“Gringotts?” Harry asked while thinking: _a whole vault?_   Surely that was a wizard thing.  It didn’t mean anything, he told himself firmly.  Getting his hopes up only ended in pain.  _Don’t do it._

“Wizard bank,” Rubeus nodded.  “Run by goblins.”

Harry almost choked on the sausage he’d been trying to swallow.  “I’m sorry, did you say _goblins_?” he asked as politely as he could when he was again able to breathe.

“Yeh,” the giant replied in a tone that suggested it was perfectly normal in his world.  “So yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh that.  Never mess with goblins, Harry.  Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe – ‘cept maybe Hogwarts.  As a matter of fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway.  Fer Dumbledore.  Hogwarts business.”  He drew himself up proudly.  “He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him.  Fetchin’ you.  Getting’ things from Gringotts.  Knows he can trust me, see.”

Harry nodded.  He did see.  Probably more than Hagrid thought he saw.  The man clearly saw it as an honor to serve Dumbledore, and judging by his display last night when Vernon called Dumbledore a crackpot old fool, he’d probably die before betraying the headmaster.  Harry wouldn’t forget that little tidbit.

“Got everythin’?  Come on, then.”

Harry nervously followed Rubeus out onto the rock, Rhast right behind him lest he get left behind.  He was a bit uneasy about going somewhere with this strange man that he’d just met, but considering what he knew awaited him as soon as he was alone with the Dursleys, he figured this was easily the safer option.

The sky was clear now, and the sea gleamed in the sunlight.  The boat Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

“How’d you get here?” Harry wondered cautiously.  Asking questions still felt dangerous, but Hagrid hadn’t reacted poorly to any of them yet.  At least, not in any way directed toward Harry.

“Flew,” Hagrid said easily.

Harry blinked, replayed that in his mind, and decided that he hadn’t misheard.  “Flew?” he inquired, hoping the big man would elaborate as it seemed unlikely that he was talking about an airplane.

“Yeah.  But we’ll go back in this.  Not s’pposed ter use magic now I’ve got yeh.”

Harry nodded, wondering again why Rubeus wasn’t supposed to use magic, but it still didn’t feel right to ask. 

“Seems a shame ter row, though,” Hagrid muttered, giving Harry a sideways look.  “If I was ter… er… speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” Harry smiled, mentally filing this into his list of all the things he was generously doing for the man.  He’d remember to bring it up later if it seemed helpful.

Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again – which Harry found rather odd – tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

The trip to land was… interesting.  Hagrid read his newspaper while the boat propelled itself – Harry found it funny that the Dursleys were going to have an interesting time getting back without the boat, though it would probably just make them angrier in the long run.  Then again, Dudley had a pig’s tail.  It really couldn’t get much worse than that.

“Ministry o’ Magic messin’ things up as usual,” Hagrid muttered as he read.

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked warily.

“‘Course.  They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister, o’ course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job.  Bungler if ever there was one.  So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning askin’ fer advice.”

Harry sighed almost silently as he filed that bit of information away as well.  It seemed like everything he heard about this Dumbledore person only made him more dangerous.  Voldemort was afraid of him.  The Minister deferred to him.  The public apparently liked him if they wanted him for minister.

After they made land, they walked to the train station and boarded a train – Harry had to help Hagrid with the “muggle money”.  Harry looked over his supply list on the train.  Robes.  Robes?  The only thing that came to mind when Harry thought of robes were like bathrobes.  Surely that wasn’t right, so he had no idea what robes were.  He moved on passed that.  Pointed hats?  Really?  As part of a uniform?

No, best to ignore the clothes entirely.  He’d have to see them to know how ridiculous he’d look in them.  Hm.  Gloves.  Dragon hide.  Dragon?  Dragons were real, then?

Harry took a moment to close his eyes and focus on his breathing.  There was just _so much_.  So much that he didn’t know.  He felt completely adrift.  Since shortly after starting school, Harry had armed himself against the world with knowledge.  He’d read every book that he could get his hands on and he’d memorized them.  He’d studied science and politics and language, economy and commerce and law.  He wasn’t an expert on anything really with the limited time he had to study, but he had a decent grasp on a lot of things.

Now he was entering an entirely new world with its own ministry, its own culture.  He was going to have to start all over again.

When they reached their stop, Harry followed the giant man up onto a street lined with shops.  Harry was very grateful that Hagrid’s massive size carved such a swath through the crowd because it allowed Harry to follow in a fairly clear path behind him.  Most importantly, Rhast could follow that path as well.  Harry had never been to London before, and Rhast certainly had not.  The thought of his invisible snake surrounded by so many heavy feet was unnerving.

Harry just hoped that all of this was real and Hagrid wasn’t some crackpot or child predator.  At least he had Rhast with him.  If Hagrid tried anything bad, the snake would bite him.

“This is it,” Hagrid said at last, “the Leaky Cauldron.  It’s a famous place.”

Harry kept his face blank lest his doubt be apparent.  Hagrid was indicating a tiny, grubby-looking pub that everyone else on the street seemed to be ignoring.  If this was the magical world’s definition of “famous”, Harry may have seriously overestimated the meaning of that word when Hagrid said it.

When they entered the pub, Harry didn’t find himself any more impressed than he’d been with the outside.  It was dark and shabby, populated by decidedly strange and somewhat unnerving people.  A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry.  One of them was smoking a long pipe.  A little man in a top hat was talking to an old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut.  The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in.  Everyone seemed to know Hagrid.  They waved and smiled at him while the bartender reached for a glass.  “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom.  I’m on Hogwarts business,” Hagrid said importantly, clapping a great hand on Harry’s shoulder and nearly making Harry’s knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” the bartender gasped, peering at Harry.  “Is this… can this be…?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender.  “Harry Potter…  What an honor.”

Harry tensed as Tom hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry, and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter.  Welcome back.”

Ah, so perhaps “famous” was not an overstatement then.  Being recognized by perfect strangers was certainly new.  The awe that he saw in the man’s eyes was interesting though.  Hagrid was grinning at him as though he thought this was a wonderful thing.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

They were talking to him, but he wasn’t able to process much of their words with most of his attention focused on not flinching away from every touch, and they all seemed very keen to touch him.  Rhast had been forced to dodge the stampede and Harry could feel him now hissing quietly back in the corner.

A pale young man made his way forward then, very nervously.  One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” Hagrid crowed.  “Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” Quirrell stammered, grasping Harry’s hand, “C-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

Harry nodded and tried to smile politely at his future professor, though he was privately wondering how the hell someone with a stutter like that could manage to teach.

Soon, the others crowded back in again, pushing Quirrell away.

It took a relative eternity – that was probably only ten minutes – to escape the small mob in the pub.  “Told yeh, didn’t I?  Told yeh you was famous.  Even Professor Quirrell was tremblin’ ter meet yeh – mind you, he’s usually tremblin’.”

Harry just nodded in return, still trying to calm his racing heart as he felt Rhast rub reassuringly against his leg.  Hagrid seemed to think that being mauled by perfect strangers was quite the treat.  Harry was just wondering how much more of that he’d have to deal with today.

“Three up… two across…” Hagrid was muttering.  “Right, stand back, Harry.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

Harry’s eyes widened as he watched the bricks begin to move of their own accord, swiftly realigning themselves into an archway that opened into a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome, to Diagon Alley,” Hagrid grinned.

Harry kept his face blank as he struggled to take in everything in this strange new place.  He thought that he understood what a robe was now, as most of the people that he could see seemed to be wearing the same sort of strange… robes.  It definitely wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, and he thought that he could get used to wearing them.  It couldn’t be any worse than Dudley’s rags, and at least he’d look just as good as everyone else.

He tried to let a lot of the details roll off him to avoid becoming overwhelmed, but he couldn’t help but notice that, as strange as everything was, it was also very ordinary.  The people were dressed strangely and talking about strange things, but they didn’t otherwise look much different to anyone else.  The kids were gushing about something in a store window the way Dudley and his friends gushed about new toys.  Adults muttered about the prices of goods or hurried from store to store as though they had more to do than time in the day.  Some of them were wrangling children while they moved about.

Harry found himself calming slightly as he followed Hagrid quickly through the Alley.  This was all new, but maybe not as strange as he’d feared.  People here were still people – no matter how strange.

That lasted until they reached…

“Gringotts,” Hagrid said.

In front of them was a huge, Roman-style white building with bronze doors and standing by the door in a scarlet and gold uniform was…

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” Hagrid said quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward it.  The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry.  He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard, and Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet.  The goblin bowed as they approached, which startled Harry briefly, but he hastily bowed in return before he was swept through the door after Hagrid.  They were faced with a second pair of doors there, these ones silver and engraved with words.

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors,_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

“Like I said, ye’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” Hagrid nodded toward the inscription.

Harry nodded thoughtfully at the poetic threat.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and Harry bowed again, this time noting that Hagrid did not even acknowledge the small creatures.  Harry frowned curiously at that and looked at the goblins, who were watching him with curiosity in turn, but they didn’t seem displeased by his action.

He filed that away for later consideration and followed Hagrid into a vast marble hall.  There were about a hundred more goblins sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses.  There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these.  Harry followed Hagrid to the counter.

“Morning,” Hagrid said to a free goblin.  “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”

“You have his key, sir?” the goblin asked suspiciously.

“Got it here somewhere,” Hagrid muttered and started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s book of numbers.  The goblin wrinkled his nose in disgust and Harry sighed almost silently.  Hagrid did not seem to possess much for manners or tact.  He gave the goblin what he hoped could be interpreted as an apologetic look and the goblin responded with a thoughtfully raised eyebrow.  They were strange-looking creatures, but they didn’t seem any less intelligent than humans.  They couldn’t be and run a bank, surely.

“Got it,” Hagrid announced at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely.  “That seems to be in order.”

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” Hagrid added importantly, throwing out his massive chest again.  “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.

The goblin read the letter while Harry wondered about the You-Know-What.

“Very well,” the goblin said at last, handing the letter back to Hagrid.  “I will have someone take you down to both vaults.  Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin.  Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he moved to follow the second goblin.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry nodded to the goblin who had helped them, then hurried after the rude giant.  They followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.  The goblin held the door for them and Harry noticed warily that he held it a bit longer than necessary – until Rhast was fully through behind them.  He frowned uncertainly at the goblin who may or may not have been aware of the invisible snake among them, but Griphook just moved passed him without comment or even a significant look.

Harry finally focused on his surroundings and was a little surprised to find that they were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches.  It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor.  Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them.  They climbed in after the goblin.  Hagrid took the rear seat with some difficulty while Harry took his time about getting into the middle seat so that Rhast could curl up around his feet.

The cart started moving, picking up speed very quickly.  Soon, they were hurtling through a maze of twisted passages.  Harry struggled to keep track of which direction they were going and what turn they took where, but he soon found that it was impossible. 

Harry’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed passed them and his legs were beginning to go numb due to the fact that Rhast was tightening around them more and more all the time.

When the cart at last stopped beside a small door in the passage wall, Harry glanced back to see that Hagrid was looking more than a bit green as he stumbled on his way out of the cart.  Great, the giant was motion sick.  Harry really hoped that he didn’t hurl.  He was a little unsteady himself as he tried to work blood back into his legs while he climbed out of the cart, the unrepentant snake right next to him.

Griphook ignored their unsteadiness as he moved to the door and unlocked it.  Harry’s eyes widened as he got a look at what was inside.  There were small mountains of gold, silver, and bronze coins strewn all over inside the vault.

“All yours,” Hagrid smiled.

Harry cleared his throat and tried not to get ahead of himself.  “H-how much are these worth?” he wondered. 

“The gold ones are galleons,” Hagrid explained.  “Seventeen silver sickles to a galleon and twenty-nine knuts to a sickle.  It’s easy enough.”

Harry frowned at him and tried to make sense of that.  Seventeen and twenty-nine were both prime numbers – not that he saw how that made more sense of it.  To him, it seemed more like someone had cast the coins, then figured out how many of the bronze and silver were necessary to match the value of the gold instead of figuring out how much weight was needed, then casting the coins in the right size so that the conversions were simpler.  Or maybe the relative values had been different when the coins were originally cast, and they’d just adjusted them as necessary rather than changing the size or weight of the coins…  That was possible.

He shook that thought and tried to focus on the problem at hand.  He looked at Hagrid, then remembered the difficulties that he’d had with muggle money and transferred his attention to the goblin lingering near the door.  “Excuse me, Mr. Griphook, but could you tell me how much a galleon is worth compared to… muggle pounds?”

The goblin lifted an eyebrow at him, but responded neutrally enough.  “A galleon is worth approximately 4.93 muggle pounds, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you,” Harry nodded as he quickly did some math in his head.  He’d always been good with maths.  Rounding to an even five pounds for the sake of his brain, that meant that there were about two hundred galleons to a thousand pounds.  Looking at the pile of gold coins in front of him, he estimated that he could probably hold about fifteen of them in his fist, which meant that just over six and a half fistfuls would be a hundred, so a two-liter bucket could probably hold three hundred of them.  He picked a few up and confirmed that they were quite heavy for their size.

“Um.  Is there…?” he trailed off as Hagrid handed him a bag.  He looked at it dubiously.  By his estimate, it would only hold about thirty or forty coins.

“If you wish, Mr. Potter, Gringotts provides charmed bags for a small fee.  They’re expanded to be larger on the inside and always remain light.”

Harry sighed in relief and smiled gratefully at the goblin.  “How much is the fee?”

“One galleon for a standard bag, five for the deluxe.  The deluxe bag includes a larger space for up to a thousand galleons and anti-theft charms that will render it empty and useless should anyone but you attempt to retrieve money from it.  They are, of course, reusable.”

“I’ll take the deluxe then, please,” Harry nodded.

The goblin snapped his long fingers and a bag just appeared it them, causing Harry to start slightly.  He smiled as he accepted the bag.  “Do I pay you then?” he wondered.

“The fee has already been deducted from your vault.”

Harry blinked, then shrugged.  If the goblin could make a bag appear out of thin air, then he could probably make five galleons from among these piles disappear just as easily.  That gave him another thought, “Do I have to count out each coin that I want to take then, or is there an easier way, sir?”

“I can fill the bag for you if you wish.  How much would you like?” the goblin inquired, still perfectly neutral. 

At least he didn’t seem bothered by Harry’s questions, but then Harry supposed that this was a business and he was a customer, so that made sense.  “Um, five hundred galleons?”

The goblin snapped his fingers again and Harry felt the bag in his hand swell slightly even as he noticed one pile in the back of the room get noticeably smaller.  He peered into the bag and found it now filled with shining gold coins though it was still very light.  “Thank you.  Um, is it possible to get muggle pounds here?”

“The conversion rate is two percent, and we do offer muggle-style wallets with the same charms as that bag.  How much would you like?”

Harry frowned thoughtfully.  He knew that his aunt and uncle would steal the money if they could, so he’d definitely want one of those charmed wallets.  He didn’t know if he’d get a chance to spend much if any of it at the Dursleys, but the idea of having the money if he did need it was enticing – assuming, of course, that he survived returning to the Dursleys.  Or that they survived it.

“A thousand pounds,” he figured should be plenty.

A couple more snaps of his clawed fingers, and Harry was provided with a black leather wallet, which did indeed contain a sizeable stack of twenty-pound notes.  He contained a hysterical giggle at having so much money and nodded his thanks to the goblin.  And he hadn’t even taken half of one of the six piles of gold in the room.  Maybe he wasn’t “rich” per se, but he figured that he would have a lot more than enough money to get him through school.

“Well, that should be plen’y fer a couple o’ terms.  We’ll keep the rest safe fer yeh,” Hagrid said as Harry tucked the bag and wallet into his pockets.  He turned to Griphook then.  “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” Griphook replied in that neutral voice as they closed up Harry’s vault and moved back into the cart.

“ _Try not to strangle my legs,_ ” Harry whispered under his breath while Hagrid was making a great racket climbing in behind him.  He noticed with slight unease that the goblin was looking at him curiously as Rhast replied.

“ _I will try, Master, but if I fall out, you will catch me._ ”

Harry smirked faintly at that, but made sure to put a firm hand on the coil that lay over his lap when he settled.  The goblin didn’t comment on his quiet hissing, and seemed to dismiss it as he started the cart moving once more.

Vault seven hundred thirteen had no keyhole.  Instead, Griphook just ran one of his long fingers gently down the door and it simply melted away. 

Harry shivered slightly at the way the air seemed to stir.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there,” Griphook informed him.

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” Harry wondered.

“About once every ten years,” the goblin grinned nastily.

Harry smiled just a little and made a mental note to never get on the bad side of the goblins.  He didn’t get the sense that they’d hesitate to stuff him in one of these vaults, famous or not.

Inside, the vault was nearly empty, holding only a single small package wrapped in grubby brown paper, which Hagrid quickly snatched up and stuffed deep into his coat.  Harry was curious about what was apparently so important and secret, but he knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way back.  It’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” Hagrid said gruffly as they piled back into the cart one last time.

When they reached the surface, Harry thanked the goblin politely and the goblin gave a small bow in return.  He then followed Hagrid back into the bright sunlight, looking around eagerly at all of the strange shops now that he had money to spend.

“Might as well get yer uniform,” Hagrid said, drawing Harry’s attention toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.  “Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron?  I hate them Gringotts carts.”

Harry frowned slightly.  He didn’t like the idea of this giant man drinking while he was around Harry, but he did like the idea of getting a little time away from the man who’d seemed to insult the goblins accidentally several times.  He hesitated only a moment before giving a small nod.

Hagrid lumbered off toward the pub and Harry turned toward the robe shop.  He took a quiet breath and steeled himself for anything as he stepped inside.

He was immediately greeted by a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she asked before Harry could speak.  “Got the lot here.  Another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop was a boy who looked about Harry’s age.  He had pale skin and pale blond hair, and he stood very straight atop a small stool while a second woman pinned up his long black robes.

The woman led Harry over next to the other boy and ushered him up onto a stool before slipping a robe over his head and beginning to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” the boy said.  “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded, eyeing the pretty blond boy curiously.

“My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street at the apothecary,” the boy said in a bored, drawling voice that dripped smooth confidence belied by a tension in the way he was holding himself.  “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms.  I don’t see why first years can’t have their own.  I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Harry smiled at the boy that seemed to be trying to impress him.  “What will you do with a broom at school if you’re not allowed to have it?” he inquired, letting his amusement show through.  “You wouldn’t be able to actually use it without getting caught, would you?”  He’d seen the signs for racing brooms, though he wasn’t clear on whether they were meant to be ridden or if they were sort of like magically radio controlled or something.

The blonde looked at him sharply as he seemed to be trying to decide if he was being mocked.

Harry made sure his smile was gentle so it would be clear that it wasn’t meant as an insult.

After a moment, the blonde snorted elegantly – a feat that Harry hadn’t realized was possible.  “Have you got your own broom then?”

“No,” Harry shrugged.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No.”

“ _I_ do.  Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree.  Know what House you’ll be in yet?”

Harry made an effort to not laugh at the boy’s bragging.  Harry was beginning to suspect that this boy knew even less about making friends than Harry did.  He may not have ever had friends of his own, but he was very good at observing and he’d figured out how friendships worked, for the most part.  He just wished that he had some idea of just what the boy was talking about.  What the hell was Quidditch, anyway?

“No,” Harry said again, making a mental list of books he needed to look for when he went to buy his school books.  Something on Quidditch and something about Hogwarts were on there so far.  And maybe something about brooms.  _Racing_ brooms.  Did they really fly on brooms like in the story books, then?  It just seemed terribly impractical.  Was there something about brooms that made them ideal for that as well as for cleaning the floors?

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin.  All our family have been.  Imagine being in Hufflepuff.  I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

Having no idea what the boy was talking about, Harry just gave him a somewhat conspiratorial smile, which seemed to do the trick.

“I say, look at that man!” he said suddenly, nodding toward the front window.  Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Hagrid,” Harry frowned slightly, wondering how much the giant had managed to drink since they’d parted.

“Oh, I’ve heard of him.  He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“The gamekeeper, apparently,” Harry shrugged.  A lot about the boy’s bearing was starting to make sense as he so disdainfully sneered the word “servant”.  This boy had to be rich.

“Yes, exactly,” the boy nodded.  “I heard he’s a sort of _savage_ – lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then, he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

Harry grimaced faintly at the mention of the giant getting drunk.

“Why is he with you?” the blonde asked with a sudden suspicion in his silvery eyes.  “Where are your parents?”

Harry lifted an eyebrow at the blonde and replied flatly, “Dead.”

“Oh, sorry,” the boy said automatically, not actually sounding sorry at all.  “But they were _our_ kind, weren’t they?”

Harry frowned at the boy, starting to get a little impatient with his lack of manners.  “If you mean magical, then yes, they were.”

The boy nodded, seeming somewhat relieved.  “I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you?  They’re just not the same.  They’ve never been brought up to know our ways.  Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get their letter.  Imagine.  I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families.  What’s your surname, anyway?”

The woman working on his robes picked that minute to interrupt.  “That’s you done, my dear.”

Harry hopped down from the stool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” the blond boy said, either forgetting his own question or not having cared that much for the answer to begin with.

“Right,” Harry sighed, walking away from the boy before he gave in to the urge to tell him exactly how little he’d appreciated hearing about how he didn’t deserve to go to Hogwarts.  It wasn’t like it was his fault that no one had bothered to tell him anything about the magical world before last night.

Harry paid for his robes, then met Hagrid outside the shop.  He frowned uncomfortably as he slowly accepted the giant cone he was offered.  He hesitated, wondering if he should just try to force himself to eat the sugary confection.  He really wasn’t sure that he could actually keep it down though.  “Um… Hagrid…” he said cautiously.

The giant frowned.  “Do yeh not like the flavors?” he worried.

“I actually don’t care for any ice cream,” Harry said cautiously.

Hagrid blinked at him as though he’d never heard anyone say such a thing.  “Oh,” he said finally, thankfully accepting the cone of frozen sugar back.  “Sorry, Harry.  I didn’ even think…  Well, come on, then.  We’ll get yeh somethin’ else.”

Harry was led to a small café near the ice cream parlor, and was instructed to get anything that he wanted.  He settled on a crusty roll of bread with dates baked into it – a large roll, since this was apparently to fill in for lunch.

“What’s up?” Hagrid asked after a while of eating in silence – Hagrid had taken on both cones himself.

Harry hesitated a moment before admitting, “There’s just so much that I don’t know about this world.  What’s Quidditch, for example?”

“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know – not knowin’ about Quidditch!”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and sarcastically thank the idiot for stressing just how ignorant he was.  “There was a boy at the robe shop who said that people from muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed at Hogwarts because they don’t know anything about the magical world,” he admitted somewhat stiffly.

“Yer not _from_ a muggle family.  If he’d known who yeh _were_ – he’s grown up knowin’ yer name if his parents are wizardin’ folk.  You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh.  Anyway, what does he know about it?  Some o’ the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in ‘em in a long line o’ muggles.  Look at yer mum!  Look what she had fer a sister!”

Harry nodded slowly.  He supposed that made sense, but it didn’t make him or those like him any less ignorant.  How could the wizards wait until a month before school started to tell them _anything_?  He may not be from a muggle family, as Hagrid had said, but he’d been raised by them, and he was just as ignorant as all the others.  That’s what the boy had been talking about.  And maybe he would have changed his tune if he’d known that Harry was “the Harry Potter”, but then it would only be because he was famous.  Not because he was any less ignorant.

“So what is Quidditch?” he finally sighed.  He needed to know some basic things as soon as possible.

“It’s our sport.  Wizard sport.  It’s like – like football in the muggle world.  Everyone follows Quidditch.  It’s played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four balls – sorta hard ter explain the rules.”

Harry nodded.  That was probably enough for now anyway.  “And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“School Houses.  There’s four.  Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o’ duffers, but…”

“Why do they say that?”

“Oh.  Well.  I s’pose that’s ‘cause they’re a pretty quiet bunch.  Knowed for workin’ hard and bein’ loyal.  Don’ get mad easy like.”

Harry nodded slowly as he tried to process how those traits made them “duffers”.  Probably, they didn’t fight back enough and let others push them around. 

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin, though,” Hagrid went on darkly.  “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.  You-Know-Who was one.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully at that.  The boy in the robe shop was sure that he’d be Slytherin – his whole family was – and he didn’t seem evil.  A bit stuck up and lacking in manners, but not evil.  How many eleven year olds could really be evil anyway?  Then again, Harry spent his free time plotting ways to torture his family to death.  Maybe _he_ was evil.  Strange, he didn’t _feel_ evil.  He didn’t hurt people for fun, or even want to.  He just thought that some people deserved to be hurt.

He shook that thought with an effort.  “So Voldemort was at Hogwarts?” he wondered.

Hagrid shuddered, “Shouldn’t be sayin’ his name like that, Harry.”

“Why not?” Harry wondered.

Hagrid looked somewhat flustered by the question.  “Why not…?  Well, because…  ‘cause yeh jus’ don’, Harry.”

Harry was not going to call him You-Know-Who.  That was just plain stupid.  And he’d said the name several times without anything bad happening to him.  He supposed maybe you had to be there when Voldemort was around to understand it, but he still couldn’t see it.  He shrugged.  “He was a Slytherin, then?”

“Years an’ years ago,” Hagrid nodded, though he still looked unsettled about hearing the name.

Harry tried hard not to roll his eyes.

“Hagrid, how are we going to carry everything?” Harry wondered as they started walking again.  He was looking at his list and it seemed like it would be cumbersome by the time he had all his books and a cauldron and scales and a telescope and everything else.

“Oh…” Hagrid scratched at his beard.  “Well, I s’pose we should get yer trunk.”

That didn’t sound much easier to carry, but Harry didn’t complain as he followed Hagrid into a shop called Luggin’s Luggage.

Harry was immediately impressed by the fact that the inside of the store was much larger than the outside should have allowed.  What had seemed a regular shop from the outside was more like a warehouse on the inside, filled with tall shelves holding luggage of all shapes and sizes and colors.  There were trunks, chests, portable cabinets and shelves, shoulder bags, back packs, waist purses, and even lockets that claimed to hold anything from a dozen cubic centimeters to two cubic meters of space.

Harry was very impressed.

“Here’s the Hogwarts trunks,” Hagrid nodded toward a large pyramid of generic-looking trunks under a sign that read: _Hogwarts Special, set the color after you’re Sorted!_

What the sign was missing was a description of enchantments that most of the others had.  Things like Feather-Weight, Auto-Shrinking, 4 Compartment, Anti-Theft Warded, and the cubic space contained within – some of which seemed large enough to be entire rooms inside.  Some had compartments specially designed for books, potions, wardrobe, live animal transport, and much more.  None of them seemed to have prices though, like the Hogwarts Special did.  That was listed at 5 Galleons.

“Hello, there!” a cheerful wizard greeted as he hobbled out of the back.  “Welcome to Luggin’s Luggage, I’m Graham Luggin.  Looking for the Hogwarts Special today?”

Harry spoke up before Hagrid could.  “I’m not sure.  How much are your other trunks?”

Graham’s eyes seemed to get a bit brighter at the question.  “Well, that depends on what you’re looking for.  We’ve got a wide variety of options as you can see.  You can choose the material as well as the enchantments that go into it.  What did you have in mind?”

Harry eyed some of the displays curiously.

“Harry, yeh don’ need one o’ them fancy jobs,” Hagrid interrupted.  “Most o’ the students use these.”

“If I’m going to be using it for the next seven years, I might as well invest in a good one,” Harry pointed out.  He was quite sure that everything he owned for the next seven years would need to fit in that trunk because he would never dare leave anything at the Dursleys’.  It would be destroyed or thrown out long before he got back.

Hagrid frowned slightly, but didn’t seem to have an objection to that.

“Quite right,” Graham said immediately.  “Quite right, young sir.”

Harry recognized the feather-weight and expansion charms as the same ones used on his bag and wallet from Gringotts and he thought both would be a good idea.  “How do the multiple compartment trunks work?” he wondered.

“Ah, yes,” Graham said excitedly.  “Let me demonstrate.”  And he pulled a wand from his robe pocket and gave it a swish.  One of the trunks lifted right off a nearby shelf and floated gracefully down to the floor near them.  “You see here, there’s four locks,” he explained, gesturing to the line of locks along the front.  “Each one opens a different compartment.”  He grabbed the set of keys attached to the trunk and sorted one of them out.  He inserted it into the first lock, turned it once, and opened the lid to show a space about twice as big as it should have been.  He then closed it up and put a second key in the second lock.  This time, he opened it to a compartment that must have been the wardrobe by the hangers lined up on bars inside.

“If you don’t want to carry around the keys, you can also get a trunk that only opens to a password.  For those, you set a different password for each compartment.”

Harry nodded appreciatively.  “And how does the anti-theft one work?”

“Well,” Graham grinned, getting even more excited by each question he could answer.  “There’s five levels of security warding.  The basic one is your standard lock that comes on every trunk and resiliency warding to make sure it can’t be pried or blasted open very easily.  Each level over that includes more wards.  A level one should keep out most students up to fifth or sixth year.  Level two should keep out all but the most industrious of seventh years.  Level three, you won’t have to worry about anyone but fully trained wizards getting into.  Level four should keep out most of your professors, and level five even an auror would be lucky to get into.  All of the wards are, of course, passive.  They won’t let anyone in, but they won’t harm anyone trying either.  Perfectly safe.”

Harry nodded.  He had no idea what an auror was, but he assumed it to be some kind of wizarding career based on the context, and he didn’t really need the details now.  “What about the live animal storage?  I don’t have a pet yet, but I might get one before I graduate.”

“Ah yes, and a very wise idea it is to have a proper way to transport them,” Graham said enthusiastically.  “Don’t want them getting lost on the train or eaten by another familiar, right?” he winked.  “The live animal storage compartments are reinforced to prevent your pet from scratching at the sides.  They have fresh air enchantments, a built-in no-spill food and water dish, and stability charms, so that whatever’s inside won’t be jostled about when the trunk is moved.  The only catch is that the trunk can’t be shrunk while the animal is inside.  Don’t worry, there’s a safety ward that will make it impossible to shrink while your little friend is inside so you don’t have to worry about doing it by mistake.”

“And what materials can the trunks be?”

“Ah, well, we have a wide selection of color and style choices.  Dragon hide is the most secure because it naturally repels spells cast at it and it’s extremely resistant to mundane wear and tear.  You can get that in almost any color.”

“Okay,” Harry nodded thoughtfully.  “So, if I wanted to get a trunk with black dragon hide, four compartments – standard, library, wardrobe, and live-animal storage – security level four, feather-weight, auto-sizing, and expanded, how much would that cost me?”

Graham gave it a moment of thought.  “Oh, let’s see.  Round about six to seven hundred galleons, I suppose, depending on how large you want the compartments.”

Harry sighed, “I don’t have that much with me.”

“Well, if you have a Gringotts vault, you can request the money from here,” he suggested hopefully.

“How do I do that?” Harry wondered.

Graham’s eyes sparkled at that.  “Right this way, young sir,” he said happily, leading Harry to the counter near the door.  He rummaged through a drawer briefly and came up with a stack of cards about the size of postcards.  “You see, my information is already on there.  So all you have to do is write your vault number and the amount you want, then put your thumb on this little square.  It’ll take just one drop of blood and the card will automatically go to Gringotts.  They’ll determine that it’s authentic and send the requested amount right over.”

“That’s handy,” Harry smiled.  “I think I’ll take that trunk then.”

Graham’s smile warmed even further as he pulled out a form and began filling in information.  “Now, you can set the size of the compartments individually.  The standard size for a wardrobe compartment is one meter by two so that your robes can hang freely inside.”

“Can I get that expanded further later if I want?”

“Of course.  It’s about a half hour job.  You can bring the trunk by whenever you want.”

“Okay, then the standard is good for now.”

“Good, good,” he murmured while he marked something on the paper.  “Now the live animal compartment is a minimum of one meter, though depending on the size and breed of your pet, you might want something a little larger.”

Harry thought about Rhast all curled up in a one meter space and tried not to snicker.  “Maybe one meter by two,” he said thoughtfully.

“All right then.  The library is made of a series of shelves that you can organize by label or you can just tap your wand to cycle through them.  The standard library compartment holds two hundred books – depending on their size, of course – but we can go as many as a thousand if you like.”

“Well, seeing as this is going to last me all seven years at Hogwarts, I think I’ll go with a thousand.”  He could definitely see himself filling most of that in seven years.

He then set his general storage compartment at one by two meters, and chose silver corner brackets and accents to go with the black dragon hide.

“Well then, that comes out to six hundred sixty seven galleons,” Graham said at last, “but I’ll give you a discount for such a substantial order.  So, we’ll say six hundred fifty.”

“Instead of a discount,” Harry said thoughtfully as he looked around, “How about just including one of these shoulder bags?”  He pointed to one that cost twenty galleons and claimed a space of one cubic meter and a feather-weight charm.

“Ah, excellent choice, young sir.  Excellent choice.  I can certainly do that.  That bag there is designed for students.  You see that circle on the flap?  After you’re sorted, just touch it with your wand and speak the name of your House and it’ll be decorated with the appropriate crest.”

“I’ll take it,” Harry nodded.

Graham passed over the bag and headed into the back to modify a pre-made trunk to his exact specifications.  Harry filled out the form requesting money from his vault while he waited.  When he pressed his thumb to the square, there was a tiny, momentary sting, and then a tiny drop of red was visible on the card.  Not a second later, it just vanished.

“Not sure yeh shoulda spent so much, Harry,” Hagrid said cautiously.

“It should last me a long time,” Harry pointed out.  “It’s not like I’ll have to buy another trunk anytime soon, after all.”

Hagrid still looked a little concerned, but he let it go. 

A bag of gold then appeared on the counter right where the card had vanished.  Harry opened it curiously to find the inside expanded, and he found himself wondering how much the goblins charged for a fee for doing this.  He’d have to ask next time.

They waited another ten minutes before Graham came back out with a very nice-looking black trunk.  “Just need to put your initials on the front,” he smiled, holding his wand over the blank little silver plaque.

“Oh.  H.J.P.”

The man tapped the plaque, and the letters formed elegantly as black engravings.  Graham smiled at it, then started slightly and focused on Harry again.  “You’re not…”

Harry sighed, “I reckon, I am.  Thank you, Mr. Luggin.  You’ve been very helpful,” he said while the man was staring with wide eyes and silently mouthing _Harry Potter_.

Graham pulled himself together shortly and showed Harry how to work the auto-shrinking feature.  Apparently, you just had to tap your wand on the trunk and say “shrink” or “restore”.

So, with his new trunk tucked neatly into his pocket, Harry followed Hagrid back out and this time to the bookstore.  He could hardly contain himself when he got inside.  He had no idea what he wanted to look at first and had to fight the irrational urge to try to look at everything at once.  He found his school books first, as they were all together on one rack and marked for “first years”.  After that, he wandered away from Hagrid and searched through the stacks as quickly as he could.  He wanted to learn about everything, but he recognized the fact that he wouldn’t understand most of it anyway.  Besides, he was sure that Hogwarts had a library where he could learn about most of this stuff.

So, with an effort, he focused on finding books that explained things about the magical world.  Most of them were on a shelf marked for muggleborns.  He ended up getting twelve extra books, which he tucked into the shelves of his library compartment after paying for them.  He could hardly wait to get a chance to read them.  They should explain everything from the war against Voldemort to Quidditch to Hogwarts to wizarding culture and etiquette.  He’d even gotten one book on the Ministry and wizarding law.

After the bookstore, there were more stops.  Stationery turned out to be feather quills and rolls of parchment.  Happily, he found a shelf dedicated to muggleborns in that store too, and a book explaining how to properly use a quill, which were frankly making him a little nervous.  He also bought self-inking quills, which he assumed was what Hagrid had used last night.  Trying to carry around and use tiny jars of ink just didn’t seem very convenient.  He bought metal-tipped quills so he wouldn’t have to worry about sharpening them all the time, which an inquiry about the tiny knives on display had informed him was necessary with standard quills.

They got his cauldron and scales, knives, and stirring rods, and ladles at a potions supply store, then went to the apothecary for ingredients.  After that, they got his telescope and gloves.

Finally…

“Just yer wand left.  Oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday present.”

Harry blanked his face as he felt himself tense.  “You don’t have to,” he objected stiffly.  He’d never had a birthday present before.  Well, not that he could remember.  He still wasn’t comfortable with Hagrid acting like he was an old friend just because he’d known a couple of people Harry couldn’t even remember.

“I know I don’t have to.  Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer animal.  Not a toad.  Toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at.  And I don’ like cats, they make me sneeze.  I’ll get yer an owl.  All the kids want owls.  They’re dead useful.  Carry yer mail an’ everythin’.”

Harry blanched slightly at the memory of Rhast gulping down that post owl this morning.  “Oh, I don’t know, Hagrid.  I’m not much of a bird person…”

“Nonsense, Harry,” Hagrid dismissed at once.  “Yeh need summat ter put in that compartmen’ in yer trunk, now don’ yeh?”

Harry contained a wince.  He didn’t want Hagrid to wonder about his getting a trunk with an animal compartment, but not wanting an animal.  Still, he couldn’t really put an owl in there _with_ Rhast.  Not if he wanted to get two animals back out, at least.

So, he reluctantly followed the jolly giant into Eeylops Owl Emporium and chose the largest, meanest looking owl that he could find, hoping that Rhast wouldn’t eat her.  She was snowy white with intelligent yellow eyes that seemed to glare constantly in the direction of the invisible snake.  God, it was going to be impossible keeping both of them in his tiny room at the Dursleys’…  And it wasn’t like he had anyone to write to anyway.

He thanked Hagrid as they left the shop, trying to keep all the resentment out of his tone.  It wasn’t Hagrid’s fault, after all, that his generosity wasn’t wanted.

They finally made it to the wand shop after that.  It was easily the creepiest of all the places they’d been today.  It looked run-down and filthy.  The air seemed somehow… thicker in here, like every breath was making him feel more alert, but also slightly light-headed and a bit jittery.  He couldn’t decide if it was a good feeling or a bad feeling.  The back of his neck prickled and he tensed.

“Good afternoon.”  Harry flinched at the sound of the soft voice, but Hagrid almost fell off the spindly stool in the corner judging by the crashing and scrambling noise behind him.

An old man stepped out of the shadows behind the counter.  He had wide, pale eyes that shone like moons through the gloom of shop.

“Hello,” Harry said cautiously.

“Ah yes,” the man nodded to himself.  “Yes, yes.  I thought I’d be seeing you soon.  Harry Potter.  You have your mother’s eyes.  It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand.”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes.  It was becoming painfully clear that he probably cared less about his parents than the entire rest of the magical world.  They were dead.  He had no memory of them, and it was their fault that he’d ended up with the Dursleys - their fault for dying and their fault for trusting Dumbledore.  He didn’t want to think about them.

Harry stopped zoning out of what the old man was saying when he came to stand so close to Harry that they were nearly nose to nose.  Harry leaned back slightly and fought the urge to back up.

“And that’s where…”

Mr. Ollivander reached out and touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a long, white finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly, ignoring the fact that Harry had flinched from his touch and given into the urge to take a few steps back, nearly putting his back to the wall.  “Thirteen and a half inches.  Yew.  Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands…  Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”  he shook his head, and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted Hagrid.

“Rubeus!  Rubeus Hagrid!  How nice to see you again…  Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” Hagrid said gruffly.

“Good wand, that one.  But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” he said, suddenly stern.

“Er… yes, they did, yes,” Hagrid replied nervously.  “I’ve still got the pieces though,” he added brightly.

“But you don’t use them?” Ollivander asked sharply.

“Oh, no, sir,” Hagrid said quickly, but Harry noticed that he gripped his pink umbrella as he said it.

Ah.  That explained a lot.  Apparently, he’d been expelled – from Hogwarts? – and they’d snapped his wand because he wasn’t supposed to use magic anymore, but he’d put them back together in that umbrella?  Harry couldn’t wait to start reading his books so that he could make sense of all of this.

“Hmmm,” Ollivander said somewhat doubtfully.  “Well now…  Mr. Potter.  Let me see.”  He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket.  “Which is your wand arm?”

Harry frowned uncertainly, “How would I know that?”

“Your dominant arm,” Ollivander pressed.

“Oh.  Well, I’m right handed…”

“Hold out your arm.  That’s it.”  He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round his head.  As he measured, he kept up a constant monologue.  “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter.  We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons.  No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are the same.  And, of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”

Harry swallowed uneasily as he realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing it on its own.  Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor, much to Harry’s relief.

“Right then, Mr. Potter.  Try this one.  Beechwood and dragon heartstring.  Nine inches.  Nice and flexible.  Just take it and give it a wave.”

Harry took the wand cautiously and felt somewhat silly as he waved it awkwardly, but Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

Another soon replaced it, though Harry didn’t bother paying attention to the type that it was as it didn’t mean anything to him.  He hardly raised that one to wave it before it too was snatched away.

He very soon found himself getting annoyed with the process as he was unable to tell what Ollivander was looking for.  A few dozen worthless attempts later, Ollivander looked more thrilled than ever. 

“Tricky customer, eh?  Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere.  I wonder now…  yes, why not?  Unusual combination.  Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry took the wand irritably, only to frown when he felt a sudden warmth in his fingers.  He gave it a sharp wave and a shower of green and black sparks exploded out of the end.  Harry started badly at the unexpected display, but Hagrid was whooping and clapping and Ollivander was exclaiming, “Oh, bravo!  Yes, indeed, oh very good.  Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…”

“What’s curious?” Harry snapped, beginning to lose his sense of humor.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said, fixing Harry with a pale stare.  “Every single wand.  It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather.  Just one other.  It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother…  Why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry frowned and fought the urge to rub his forehead.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches.  Yew.  Curious indeed how these things happen.  The wand chooses the wizard, remember.  I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…  After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things.  Terrible, yes.  But great.”

“So my wand is like Voldemort’s?” Harry asked, mostly just because he couldn’t resist proving that he _could_ be named.

Ollivander started at the sound of the name and gave Harry a very intense stare.  “Indeed it is, Mr. Potter.”

When they left the wand shop, the late afternoon sun hung low in the sky.  They made their way out of Diagon Alley and back into London.  Harry barely noticed the way people stared at them – thanks to Hagrid’s massive size, no doubt – as they walked down the street or rode the underground.  He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even realize they’d arrived at Paddington station until Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

“Got time fer a bit to eat before yer train leaves,” he said.

They sat down at a small café and Harry got a hamburger and chips.

“You all right, Harry?  Yer very quiet.”

Harry gave it a moment of thought as he tried to figure out how to express his concerns.  “Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said finally.  “They all expect things from me, but…  I can’t even remember the night I got this scar.”

Hagrid leaned across the table and smiled softly.  “Don’ you worry, Harry.  Yeh’ll learn fast enough.  Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts.  Yeh’ll be just fine.  Just be yerself.  I know it’s hard.  Yeh’ve been singled out, an’ that’s always hard.  But yeh’ll have a great time at Hogwarts.  I did.  Still do, ‘smatter of fact.”

Harry nodded, but he remained pensive.  He was very willing to bet that no one in the wizarding world wanted to see the real him.  Being himself would probably be the very worst thing that he could do.  He really wasn’t a very nice person.  He’d never had any reason to be nice.  Never had anyone he’d dare to trust.  Didn’t want anyone, come to think of it.  Rhast was enough.  Trying to trust anyone else would just be opening himself up to be let down.

No, everyone already seemed to know who Harry was, whether they’d never met him before or known his parents or seen him as a baby.  They all seemed to know him.  Or think they did.  The best thing that he could do was prove them right.  He just had to figure out who they thought he was.

“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” Hagrid said.  “First o’ September, King’s Cross.  It’s all on yer ticket.  Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl.  She’ll know where to find me.  See yeh soon, Harry.”

Finally left alone, Harry leaned back in his seat and ran his fingers lightly over the invisible snake on his lap.  He had a lot of thinking to do in the next month.

* * *

When the train arrived in Surrey, Harry was finally pulled out of his thoughts about Hogwarts with thoughts of the Dursleys.  His hands started to tremble the moment that he thought of them.  They were going to be so angry.  He was sure that he was in for the beating of his life, and he had no idea if he was even going to survive it.

The fifteen streets he had to walk from the train station to Privet Drive didn’t seem long enough and Harry walked very slowly.  By the time he got back to the house, he was shaking all over.  Then he realized that all the lights were off.

Harry relaxed slightly.  Apparently, they’d already gone to bed.  That gave him a stay of execution until the morning, at least.  He went to the door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked.  This was far from the first time he’d been locked out overnight.  Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry went around to the back of the house to sleep in the little tool shed like he usually did when he got locked out.  It wasn’t until he was closed inside that he switched on the little light and took his trunk out of his pocket.  He enlarged it and was about to open it to the library compartment when he had an idea.

He opened the animal compartment instead and found a ladder going down into the small space.  He hesitated only a moment before climbing down inside.  He wished now that he’d made this compartment larger, but this was only a little smaller than his cupboard.

After setting the passwords onto the compartments, he grabbed a couple books from the library and went back down into the animal compartment with Rhast.  He left his new owl in the shed since there didn’t seem to be any reason to crowd them further.  He wished that he had his old mat to sit on, or a blanket, but at least he felt like he was safe for the night.  That made it worth it.

He chose _The Wizarding World for the Inquisitive Muggleborn:_ _A General Introduction_ – and that was a mouthful of a title – to read first.  At the speed that he could read, he made it three-quarters of the way through the book before he finally gave in to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**August 1991**

In the morning, Harry crawled back out of his trunk and looked at the house.  It was just after dawn, not quite six.  He’d been waking at that time for so long that he did it automatically now.  He didn’t want to go back in there.  He didn’t want to see how angry they still were.  He didn’t want another beating.  He definitely didn’t want to die.

And that’s when the idea hit him.  Did he _have_ to go back?  Ever?  He had money.  With his trunk, he could take a place to sleep with him.  In fact, he could go back to Diagon Alley and have that compartment made bigger.  He had money to buy food and a place to sleep.  And he only had a month before school started.  After this until he turned eighteen, he’d be living at school all but two or three months during the summer.

He didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys.  He _never_ had to go back.

He spent a long time just staring at the house that had been his prison for so many years.  He could get away.  He didn’t have to wait until he was eighteen.

With a slightly manic grin, he rushed back into the shed and packed up his trunk.  He looked at the owl then.  He didn’t want to have to drag her around all day, drawing attention to himself.  “Um, hey girl,” he said cautiously.  “Hagrid said that you’d know where to find him if I had a letter for him.  Is there any chance you’d be able to find me like that?”

She bobbed her head in what seemed to be an affirmative.

Harry blinked at the response, then shook himself.  He had a snake that could talk, he shouldn’t be surprised that an owl could understand him and respond.  Maybe it was because he was a wizard, or maybe it was something about the kind of animals they were.  Either way, he was glad for it.  “Great.  Can I just let you out then, and you can find me tonight?”

Another bob.  He opened the cage, not sure if he was hoping that he’d understood her properly or if he was hoping that he’d never see her again.  He certainly didn’t need another pet, but he was slightly attached to her already.  She was very pretty and she seemed very smart.  Oh well.  He decided not to be disappointed either way.  She gave a warning glare toward Rhast, then took to the sky.

Harry quickly put her cage in his trunk and stuck that in his pocket, then headed for the train station again.

Still feeling giddy about his newfound freedom and the ability to just buy a train ticket because _he_ , Harry Potter, had his very own money, he boarded the train for London.  He had gotten a concerned look from the lady at the ticket counter, but he’d just babbled quickly about his dad dropping him off and how excited he was about meeting his mum in London and the woman had just smiled at him and wished him a good morning.  If there was one thing he’d learned about adults, it was that they loved to convince themselves that everything was fine.  It never took much for him to nudge them in that direction.

“ _Are we running away_?” Rhast inquired once the train was moving.

Harry shrugged, “ _I think that implies someone will miss us.  But we’re not going back there.  Not until we’re ready to repay them their last ten years of ‘kindness’ at least_.”

Rhast heartily approved of the plan and they spent most of the ride to London chatting quietly about Hogwarts.

When they arrived, Harry stopped at the same little café that he and Hagrid had visited last night and got a quick breakfast before retracing their path to Diagon Alley.  Harry didn’t head for the Alley immediately though.  There were many shops along the road, and Harry found his way into a clothing shop first.  When he was dressed in Dudley’s rags, he found that people tended to look at him like he might try to rob them.  That was only more pronounced without Hagrid there drawing most of their attention.

He bought a few packages of underwear and socks, then enough jeans and t-shirts to last him a whole week since he figured he’d have to find a public launderette when they got dirty and he didn’t want to have to do that more than once a week.  He added a few jumpers as well.  It was beyond amazing how good it felt to be dressed in new clothes that fit him properly.  The luxury of that was something that he’d rarely even thought to wish for.

He found a shoe store next and actually got a little teary at the sensation of shoes that fit, settled snugly around his feet over his clean socks.  The salesman looked at his old shoes with something like horror and when he offered to dispose of them for Harry, he thanked the man and bid goodbye to the horrid things and hopefully to the blisters he always got from walking very far in them.  He picked up a comfortable pair of trainers and some of the most comfortable black dress shoes.  From what he recalled of the Hogwarts uniform robes, he thought his trainers might look pretty strange with them.

Finally, he headed for the Leaky Cauldron.  It wasn’t too hard to find, being much darker and dingier and more old-fashioned than any of the shops in the area.  Harry hurried through the pub and into the back.  Three up and two across, he remembered, finding the brick that Hagrid had located yesterday.  He tapped it thrice with his wand and was relieved when the archway opened.  He’d been concerned that there might be more to it that he hadn’t seen.

He made for the bank first since his clothes shopping had exhausted a lot of the muggle money that he had.  He bowed to the goblins on his way in again and was pleased when he spotted the same goblin they’d first spoken to yesterday.

“Hello, Mr. Stonecrusher,” he greeted with a small smile.

Again, the goblin lifted an eyebrow at him.  “Hello, Mr. Potter.  How can Gringotts assist you today?”

“Well, I had a question, actually.  Is it possible to get money out of my vault without going all the way down there?”

“Of course,” the goblin replied at once.  “If you have your key, I can use it to authorize a withdrawal.”

Harry smiled with relief and passed over his key.  He hadn’t minded the trip down, but Rhast was not fond of it and Harry preferred it when the blood could actually get into his feet, thankyouverymuch.  “I was also wondering if it was possible to get like a statement of my account, so I know exactly how much I have?”

“Of course, Mr. Potter,” the goblin frowned.  “Gringotts sends out statements quarterly.  Have you not been receiving them?”

Harry blinked.  “Quarterly?  Um.  No.  I’ve never gotten a statement.  I didn’t even know that I had a vault here until yesterday.”

Stonecrusher’s face darkened.  “I see,” he said stiffly.  “One moment, Mr. Potter.”  He hopped down off his stool and disappeared into one of the many doors.  Harry shifted impatiently while he waited, but he didn’t take too long.  Maybe a minute later, he reappeared with another goblin, who looked older.  “Mr. Potter, this is Grubrok.  He is in charge of your account.  If you would accompany him to his office, I believe that the two of you have some things to discuss.”  He passed Harry his key back.

“Okay,” Harry said uncertainly.  “Thank you, Mr. Stonecrusher.”

He was led back through the door that the goblins had just exited, and Harry found that it did indeed look like an office with a desk and many cabinets.  There was even an in and outbox, though they contained rolls of parchment instead of sheets of paper.

“Have a seat, Mr. Potter,” Grubrok instructed as the goblin settled into his own chair behind the desk.

Harry sat down in front of it.

“Stonecrusher tells me that you haven’t been receiving your statements, though I have record of sending them off once every season for the last ten years.”

Harry shook his head helplessly.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Grubrok, I haven’t gotten them.  In fact, I haven’t gotten any mail before my letter came from Hogwarts.  Do you think someone’s been stealing my mail all these years?”

“I have absolutely no doubt of it,” the goblin nodded.  “You, Mr. Potter, are the most famous wizard in Britain.  You have more than likely been receiving a great deal of fan mail and gifts throughout your life, especially on holidays, your birth anniversary, and the anniversary of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s defeat.”

Harry sighed, though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.  He didn’t like it that he wasn’t getting his mail, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted a bunch of strangers sending him things either.

“I would speculate that someone has set wards preventing you from receiving your mail in order to prevent any hexed, cursed, or otherwise dangerous items from reaching you.  The ministry perhaps, but more likely Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry scowled.  Dumbledore _again_.  Why was that man so involved in his life?

“I take it that you were unaware of this?”

“Yes,” Harry frowned.  “I don’t even remember ever meeting Dumbledore.  It’s possible to set wards on my person?”

Grubrok nodded, “Yes, quite.  If you would like, Gringotts can remove the wards from you – for a fee, of course.  We also offer a service to collect all of your mail and dispose of anything cursed or otherwise dangerous before sending it off again.  There is a monthly fee for that.”

“How much is it?”

“Removal of the wards is a fairly simple ritual that will cost you twenty galleons.  The monthly fee to sort your mail is thirty galleons with a start-up cost of twenty galleons, which covers the wards that we need to set in order to route your mail through us.  Also, of course, your mail will arrive approximately one day later as it does take time to examine and repost it, however, for an additional one-time fee of fifty galleons, we can supply you with a pair of charmed trunks.  One of them will remain here and the other with you, allowing us to place your mail into our trunk and it will arrive directly in yours.”

“But Dumbledore – if he is the one responsible – will know that the ward was removed,” he noted.

“If he has been receiving all of your mail prior to now, then yes.  He will.”

Harry sighed, but nodded.  He was wary of rocking the boat with regard to this man about whom he seemed to become more and more concerned the more he learned about him, but there was _no way_ that he was going to let him get away with stealing all of his mail any longer.  How many Christmas and birthday presents had Dumbledore stolen from him?  How many of them might have been expensive?  He’d never met him, but he was coming to seriously hate him.

“All right.  I’ll do that, and with the trunks.”  Thirty galleons a month was a lot, but it was either that or not get any of his mail that Dumbledore didn’t feel like sending on to him.  He couldn’t risk getting mail with curses on it since he didn’t know how to check for them.  According to the book he’d read last night, he couldn’t even use magic outside of school until he was seventeen.  He did the math quickly in his head.  Thirty galleons a month, twelve months a year, for the next seven years…  Just over twenty-five hundred galleons.  Almost four times as much as his trunk, but even more valuable.  He deemed it worth it, and he figured he could afford it.  “Can I get a statement now?  I don’t even know how much I have.  I’m just guessing by what I saw yesterday.”

“Of course, Mr. Potter.”  Grubrok slid out of his chair and opened one of the cabinets at the back of the room.  He rifled around in it for a while before coming out with a scroll, which he passed over the desk.

Harry unrolled it and started scanning down it.  He had over twenty-six thousand galleons and a bunch of sickles and knuts.  That was about what he’d guessed.  God, that was over a hundred thousand pounds.  He glanced at the next page then and froze.  He frowned, then looked back up at the goblin.  “I have more than one vault?”

“Of course, Mr. Potter,” Grubrok said as though it was absurd that he hadn’t known that.  “The vault that you visited yesterday was only your trust.  The Potters have been one of the wealthiest families in Magical Britain for over a thousand years.  You won’t be eligible to claim the family lordship until you turn fifteen.  If, at that time, you choose to become Lord Potter, you will have full access to the family vault.  If you wait, you will automatically receive the title upon your seventeenth birthday.”

Seventeen was considered adult in the magical world, Harry recalled reading.

He shook himself and decided to examine the “Lord” thing later.  Hopefully, some of his reading would give him some information on exactly what that meant.  He looked back down at his statement and blinked, then carefully counted the numbers to be sure he was reading it right.  Holy freaking God.  He had over a billion galleons in his family vault.  And if he could access that at fifteen, then the twenty-six thousand in his trust only had to last him four years.  Even if he spent another six thousand this summer, he’d still have more than five thousand galleons a year until he turned fifteen in the summer after his fourth year.  Three hundred sixty a year for his mail suddenly wasn’t seeming very significant.

He flipped to the next page and frowned.  Then flipped through three more.  Finally, he looked at Grubrok again.

The goblin was actually looking somewhat amused.  “As I said, Mr. Potter, you are the most famous wizard in Britain.  Quite a few people have willed assets to you in the last decade.”

“Oh.”  Harry looked at the numbers again.  Between the four extra vaults, he had another six hundred twenty eight _thousand_ galleons.  He shook his head, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  He’d freak out about finding out that he was filthy rich later.  Right now, he had things to do.  “Okay.  So when can we do the mail thing?”

“We can set up an appointment for tomorrow if that works for you, Mr. Potter.”

“That would be great.”

“Very well.  Is nine in the morning acceptable?”

“Yes.”

The goblin gave a sharp nod and picked up a quill to make a note in a book on his desk.  “It will take about two hours.  Now, is there anything else you needed today, Mr. Potter?”

“Um.  Is it possible to combine my trust with these other four vaults?” Harry wondered.

“That can be done,” Grubrok nodded.  “Would you like to add the contents of the others to your trust vault?”

“That would be good.”

The goblin made another note.  “It will be done today.”

“Thank you.  Then I guess the only other thing I wanted was to withdraw some money from my trust vault.  In muggle pounds, please.”

“Of course.  How much do you wish?”

“Um.  A thousand pounds.”  Even after today’s shopping spree, the fact that he could get that kind of money just by asking for it made his heart flutter.  Stupid wizarding world.  How could they have made him live ten years like… well, like he did, when he was _rich_?

The goblin snapped his fingers as Griphook had done yesterday and a pile of twenty pound notes appeared on the desk.  Harry scooped it up and put it into his wallet.

“Thank you, Mr. Grubrok.  You’ve been very helpful,” Harry said politely as he stood.

“It’s been my pleasure, Mr. Potter,” Grubrok smiled in return, though it was a slightly unsettling sight given all those sharp teeth.

Harry left the bank feeling somewhat dazed.  He’d been walking down the Alley for a few minutes before a sign caught his eye and he paused.  _Alcmaeon’s Optic Remedies, since 487 BC_.  Well, that was interesting.  There were glasses displayed in the window though, and Harry’s were old and busted and they looked uglier than ever in contrast to his new clothes.

He stepped inside and found a pleasant room that bore the combination of modern and ancient that he was coming to expect on Diagon Alley.  The lighting was all candles in sconces on the walls.  Mirrors and white wooden racks were all over, displaying a huge variety of eyeglasses and a way to see how they looked on you.

“Hello, there!” a cheerful female voice greeted.

Harry started slightly before he turned to face the speaker.  She looked about thirty with bright blond hair, fair skin, and hazel eyes, and she was smiling warmly until she saw his glasses, at which point her eyes widened in horror.

“Oh, you poor dear!  Look at those things!  Cracked and chipped, and terrible with your face shape, to boot.  _Please_ tell me that you’re here for new ones!”

Harry smiled, finding her amusing so far.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, well you just come right on back and we’ll have a look at your eyes.”  She bustled him into a leather chair in the back room and immediately pulled off his glasses and drew her wand.  She pointed it right at his eye, which was a little unnerving, and muttered a long string of words he couldn’t make out, then repeated it on his other eye.  She then moved over to a nearby table and picked up a piece of parchment.  She shook her head as she looked it over.  “Oh, you poor thing.  I betcha you can’t see much of nothin’ without those glasses, can you?  Well, I can sell you new glasses if you want, or we can just fix your eyes up properly.”

Harry frowned as he put his glasses back on to see her more clearly.  “You can fix my eyes?  With a spell?”

“Of course!  Oh, you must be muggleborn, huh?  Well, yes, I can most certainly fix your eyes today if you’d like.”

“And I wouldn’t need glasses at all anymore?”

“Definitely not.”

Harry shook his head slowly.  “I’m sorry, but if you can fix my eyes up just like that, then why does _anyone_ in the wizarding world wear glasses?”  He’d seen people in the Alley wearing glasses.

She harrumphed expressively.  “Silly superstitions, that’s why.  Around the Mediterranean, this procedure is routinely used on anyone with the need.  Some places though – including most of northern Europe – eye surgery is considered dangerous to the soul.  Now, I promise you that I’ve done this procedure almost a thousand times and not once has anyone complained about noticing any problems after, not with their eyes and _certainly_ not with their soul.  It just comes from old Norse superstitions that say the eyes are the windows to the soul and therefore any tampering with the eyes tampers with the soul.”  She shook her head in disgust and took a deep breath after that rapid rant.  “I don’t think most pureblood families even remember _why_ they disdain the practice, but they love their traditions and usually refuse to question them.  You don’t need to worry about that though.  I can get you fixed right up.”

She hesitated and then added, “Of course, it is a little on the spendy side…”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” he assured her. 

Her smile popped immediately back onto her face.  “Wonderful!  Would you like to do that then?”

“Um.  How much does it cost?” he felt compelled to ask.

“Given how bad your eyes are, it’ll take two potions, three spells, and about half an hour.  Two hundred galleons.”

“Oh.  That’s not a problem then,” he nodded.  Two hundred galleons to throw away his glasses and never need any ever again?  He’d have paid ten times that without flinching.  “We can do it now?”

“Abso-posi-lutely,” she grinned.  “Let me just adjust your chair back a bit…”  She swished her wand and the back of the chair tipped back so that he was looking at pictures stuck to the ceiling.  A bubbling forest brook, a windswept sand dune, and a rainforest mid-downpour.  They all moved.  “You’re going to focus on those pictures while your eyes adjust,” she explained.  “First, I’m going to put a few drops of a special potion in your eyes.  It will relax your eyes and allow the spells to work faster and more effectively.  Then I’m going to cast the spell.  For ten minutes, you’ll just lie there and look at those pictures.  Then I’ll cast it again, followed by ten more minutes, and a final time.  After that, I’ll check to make sure you’re at the right visual acuity.  If you’re not, we’ll do it one more time.  If you are – and I think three should be enough – then I’ve got some more drops that will negate the first potion.  Then we’re all done!”

The next half hour was not fun.  She hadn’t mentioned that his eyes were going to itch terribly the entire time from the moment she put the drops in, but when he asked, he was informed that it was “normal”.  It was more than worth the discomfort though.  As he lay there staring at the ceiling, he watched the pictures come into greater and greater focus.  By the time the procedure was finished, Harry had discovered an entirely new level of clarity in the visual world.  He honestly could not remember ever seeing so clearly.  He could make out the flecks of gold and green in the woman’s eyes, for God’s sake.

He paid her happily when he was done and thanked her profusely before giving her permission to incinerate his old glasses and watching gleefully as they melted into a puddle of goo that vanished when she waved her wand.

His next stop was back at Luggin’s Luggage.  He spotted Graham partway down one aisle chatting with a twenty-something man over a few of the trunks.  The shop owner glanced at him when he entered and called out, “I’ll be right with you, young sir.  Go ahead and browse a bit.”

Harry just nodded in reply and started to wander, exploring the stacks of trunks.  Ten minutes later, he’d set up camp in front of a rack of what the sign called “Portable Abodes”.  They were, quite literally, a flat in a trunk.  Well, a small flat.  The largest seemed to be about five by ten meters on the inside, and boasted artificial windows and fully functional kitchen and bath.  By the diagram provided, it was basically a one-room flat with a small walk-in wardrobe, bathroom with toilet, sink, and shower, bed, sofa, table, and a tiny kitchen.

“Are you looking for the Hogwarts Special, young sir?” Graham asked as he finally found Harry.

Harry turned to face him and watched as it took a few seconds for Graham to place him.  He knew the exact moment because his polite professionalism immediately shifted into a large grin.  “Mr. Potter!  I hardly recognized you!  Did away with the glasses, huh?”

Harry nodded.

“Well, I didn’t expect you back so soon, but it’s a pleasure to see you again.  Are you in the market for a portable abode, or just browsing?”

“I was actually interested in this one,” Harry pointed to the largest interior trunk that he’d been examining.

“Ah, a very good choice, Mr. Potter.  Very good.  That’s my deluxe abode.  The very height of expansion charms.  New this year, as a matter of fact.  The portable abode is a bit on the expensive side, but well worth the price if you often find yourself away from home.  It certainly beats letting a room at whatever inn happens to be available!  That model comes fully furnished with a bed, table, sofa, and bookshelf as well as charmed pantry cabinets for cool, cold, and dry storage with preservation charms guaranteed to extend the life of your perishables by at least ten times.  There’s also fully charmed range and oven, no spells required on your part.  For just ten galleons more, you can add the amenities package, which provides dishes, flatware, cookware, and linens.

“The same security packages can be added as for any trunk, though for this, it includes an Unmovable Charm that makes it impossible for anyone to pick it up and carry it away while you’re inside.  There’s also an optional Disillusionment Charm for an additional fifty galleons, which is an effective, if imperfect form of invisibility.  Activate that charm, and someone will have to trip over it to find it if they’re not looking very carefully.  Also, if you want to use it in a muggle-populated area, I can add a Muggle-Repelling Charm for just twenty extra galleons, which will make any muggle who comes within a couple meters of the trunk suddenly remember something else they need to do, or just divert around it without even realizing they’ve done it.  So what do you think, Mr. Potter?”

“I think it sounds brilliant,” Harry smiled.  “Can I go in and have a look?”

“Oh, of course.  Of course.  Let me get it down for you.”

He floated the trunk down onto the floor and flipped open the lid.  Inside, there was a ladder leading down.  Graham went first and Harry followed him into the most beautiful room he’d ever seen in his life.  Though that might have been influenced by the fact that it would be his first real home.  The queen sized bed looked sinfully comfortable.  The small sofa was very inviting.  There was a small bookshelf.  The kitchen area ran along one wall on the narrow side of the space while the other had two doors.  A quick inspection revealed a walk-in wardrobe and a nice, if small, bathroom.

To Harry, given the way he’d had to live at the Dursleys, this looked like heaven.  The kitchen was interesting for the fact that there was no refrigerator or any electronic appliances that he automatically associated with such an area.  There was a range and oven that looked very old-fashioned, and a quick inspection of the cabinets proved that some were enchanted to be refrigerator temperature and some to freezer temperature while others were marked for dry food storage and others for nonperishable and nonfood storage.  There also seemed to be fully functional plumbing that could only have worked through magic.

“It’s excellent, Mr. Luggin.  I’ll take it.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Potter.  Call me Graham,” the man said, his eyes shining with pleasure.

“You can call me Harry, then,” he reciprocated which rendered the man briefly speechless.  Harry attributed it to his fame and tried to politely ignore it.

When they exited the trunk, Harry requested a level 5 security package – he valued himself a little more than his luggage, after all.  He also got all the optional packages, including amenities, disillusionment, and muggle-repelling.  Graham apparently had a “the works” trunk already prepared in the back, so Harry was able to take it immediately.  It cost him almost two thousand galleons, which probably would have been more than he was really comfortable paying before seeing how much money he actually had this morning.

So, feeling inordinately good about the accomplishments of the morning, Harry left Diagon Alley and went back into London to get lunch, then set out to find a place to camp.  It took him an hour to locate and settle on a park, and he decided to set his portable abode up in a stand of bushes where muggles were unlikely to venture even without the repelling charm.

Once he was settled on a place, he headed out and found a market to pick up some food.  It was a singularly wonderful experience to buy whatever he wanted – even if he did get a few odd looks.  And, luckily, he was a very good cook, having been doing it for the Dursleys for years.  He chuckled at the thought of them having to cook and clean for themselves from now on as he carried the many heavy bags into the first empty alley that he could find and quickly transferred it all into the general storage of his luggage trunk.

When he got back to the park, he set up his abode and activated the Disillusionment Charm, thoroughly impressed when it disappeared.  Upon close inspection, he found that it wasn’t _completely_ invisible, but it was very nearly.  Someone would definitely have to be looking for it to find it.  He climbed down inside with Rhast and closed it up.  He put away his food first, then spent probably half an hour between exploring in greater detail and just staring around the place.  The walls, the floor, the furniture, the windows that gave light but no images.  It was all singularly beautiful.  The most amazing place in the world.

Most importantly, it was all _his_.  No more beatings.  No more chores that he couldn’t do well enough for their satisfaction.  No more being screamed at and belittled.  No more Dursleys at all.

After a hot shower and a good while sprawled across the heavenly bed staring blankly around the room at random, Harry finally got out his books and set to learning more about this new magical world that had changed everything.  He hated Dumbledore.  He hated the fact that no one had told him sooner.  He hated how ignorant he still felt.  He _loved_ magic.  He loved galleons.  He loved his new freedom that this world had given him.  He loved clothes that fit and eyes that worked.

Harry knew that he was going to embrace this new world.  He knew that he was going to discover more things that he hated about it, and thought it was possible that he’d find even more that he loved.  He was going to learn everything about it.  He was going to learn everything about magic, and he would die before he gave up his freedom again.  Nothing could ever make him go back to those monsters.

* * *

The owl did find him that night, and he decided to call her Athena, since she was a proud, fierce creature – and, you know, an owl.  She seemed to approve of the name.  She soon took to going off on her own when Harry was out, then turning up at the trunk around the time that he decided to settle in for a while.  She also developed a habit of settling on the back of his sofa or the headboard of his bed and reading over his shoulder.  He couldn’t figure out if she could read or if she just liked looking at the pages, and she wouldn’t answer him when he asked.  Maybe she didn’t understand the question or maybe she was just being cheeky.  Rhast agreed fairly quickly not to eat her, but it took some time for him to actually warm up to her.  It took even longer for her to start to warm up to him.

Harry warmed up to her, too.  Though she couldn’t talk to him like Rhast, he suspected that she might be just as smart.

Trips to Diagon Alley became frequent for Harry over the next month.  He mostly tried to keep himself unremarkable and avoided giving anyone his name.  He really didn’t want to incite any mobs.  He did end up buying more robes.  The casual, everyday kind, so that he’d blend in better when he visited Diagon.  Once he was dressed in them, most people didn’t even give him a second glance.

Removing the wards that were stealing his mail was an uncomfortable procedure, but not difficult.  It involved him standing in just his pants under a magical waterfall in some ritual room at Gringotts for close to an hour while a pair of goblins chanted something in their language.  It felt exceptionally strange, almost like sweating profusely, but not.  It also left him feeling quite tired.  The ritual to reassign his mail to go directly to Gringotts was easier.  All he had to do was bleed into a bowl.  The goblins did the rest.  When it was over, the blood had been made into something that looked like a blood-red semi-precious stone engraved with markings that he’d never seen before.  Grubrok explained that it contained a copy of his magical signature and had been specifically designed so that any owl seeking him would home in on the stone instead, thereby delivering their parcels to a room in Gringotts utilized just for him where the goblins could sort his mail, then resend it via the linked trunks.

Apparently, whoever had stolen his mail must have done something very similar at some point.  The first ritual had bled off his magical signature and disconnected anything that had been tied to it leading up to that point.  Grubrok had mentioned in passing that the procedure could be done every summer to ensure he was clean of any magical tampering or tracking.  He did note that it could have the “adverse” effect of removing the Trace, which was applied to all of the students during the trip to Hogwarts – part of the enchantments on the train, apparently.

That was the first time that Harry ever wanted to hug a goblin.  He restrained himself, of course, but he now officially loved goblins.

It took him two weeks to read through all of his supplementary books, and he then switched to his course books.  He made it through those in a week, then returned to Flourish and Blotts and bought more books to increase his comprehension of the magical world, and a couple more beginner books on magical theory.  He _could have_ read more than that, of course, but he wasn’t going to spend every minute of every day reading.  He was enjoying his newfound freedom far too much to do just that.

He spent most of his days when he wasn’t visiting Diagon wandering in muggle parks.  He’d taken to picking a new park every week so that no one started to wonder about the eleven-year-old that seemed to spend too much time there.  The last thing he needed was for someone to report him and get sent back to the Dursleys.  He walked and ran and even played a little, but he spent most of his time sitting on a bench and reading one of his books or just watching life move around him.  Muggles, he’d found quite by accident, didn’t seem able to notice the titles of the books, so there wasn’t any worry for that.  He guessed that it was some kind of built in muggle-repelling charm.

And he spent some time trying out some of the spells in his books as well.  They were harder than he’d expected and it took a ridiculous amount of practice to not only get the pronunciation just right but to move his wand _just so_.  It was also exhausting if he tried to do too much at once.  His magic wasn’t used to it yet, or that’s what he’d been able to infer from his reading on magical theory.

He did notice, however, that when he was casting, he could feel it like a warmth right in the center of his chest.  The exact place that Rhast had once told him contained his “power”.  Somehow, he gathered, the snake had always known that he was magical, even if he didn’t understand exactly what it was or what it meant.  He must have been able to sense it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This chapter contains material paraphrased or quoted from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Chapter 6.

* * *

**September 1991**

That last month before school started was the best of Harry’s life.  He was free and healthy and comfortably dressed and fed.  He ate what he wanted and slept when he wanted and went where he wanted.  For the first time in his life, he was starting to _not_ resemble a walking skeleton, and he had more energy than ever before.  Sleeping and eating well was, apparently, good for him.

When September 1st rolled around, Harry packed up his abode in one pocket and his travel trunk in another, then hailed a cab to go to King’s Cross.  Upon arriving at the station, he found a trolley, and made sure that no one was looking at him before expanding his trunk onto it.  After that, he spent a few minutes arguing with Rhast in quiet hisses before he got the snake into the trunk.  He expected the train would be quite full.  Too full for a four-meter, invisible snake to be slithering around without anyone stepping or sitting on him.  There was no chance of him carrying the snake as Rhast weighed about as much as Harry.  Athena had chosen to fly on to Hogwarts rather than spend the ride either in her cage or in the trunk with Rhast.  Harry was glad for that or he’d have spent the whole trip worrying that Rhast was going to end up eating her in a fit of pique – the two of them argued a _lot_ when Harry wasn’t directly mediating.  The fact that they didn’t have a common language did not deter them at all.  Athena was definitely a tough bird, but she wouldn’t stand a chance against the very large snake in close quarters.

Hagrid had never told him how to get onto platform 9 ¾.  Thankfully, it was mentioned in _Hogwarts: A History_ that the way on was through one of the columns.  Knowing that, it was a relatively simple matter to find the only column that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up when he got too close.  After the slightly unnerving experience of walking through a wall that his eyes swore was solid brick, he found himself on a busy platform next to a bright red steam engine.  He smiled a little as he looked around at all of the witches and wizards.  He was back in the magical world.  In _his_ world.

Though the trunk was somewhat cumbersome, it was still feather-light, so he had very little difficulty hauling it onto the train and into a vacant compartment.  He found a book to read, then stowed the trunk under his seat before reclining across the bench and opening the book on transfiguration theory.  Between Charms, Defense, and Transfiguration, he’d found the latter seemed the most difficult for him, so he’d decided to give it a little extra attention.  He did feel badly knowing that Rhast was stuck in the trunk, and he’d have loved to pull out his Abode and pass the ride in there with his familiar.  He didn’t exactly want anyone to know that he even had a Portable Abode, so he prepared for a long ride without his familiar – whom he’d gotten very used to always having with him this summer.

When the train finally started moving, Harry turned his attention out the window and he felt a rush of excitement.  This was the start of the next chapter of his life.  He was going to be around other children like him.  He was going to be learning magic…

His thoughts were interrupted when his compartment door opened and he turned to see a boy his age with bright red hair.

“Anyone sitting there?” he pointed toward the seat opposite Harry.  “Everywhere else is full.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly at the obvious lie.  Clearly, every other compartment could not be _full_ if no one else had yet tried to intrude on him.  To him, it sounded like the other boy was just too lazy to look anymore, and obviously a very poor liar.  Still, Harry didn’t really care all that much.  It might be nice to meet another fellow first year.  The last one he’d really talked to was the boy in the robe shop, since he’d mostly tried to avoid talking to people when he visited the Alley alone, lest they discover he was the Boy-Who-Lived and draw unwanted attention to him.  He didn’t think that lie was a very good sign for his impression of the boy, but he was willing to give him another chance.

“No,” he said simply.

The boy smiled a little as he moved to sit down, then quickly looked out the window – obviously nervous.  He had a smudge of something on his nose, but Harry tried not to focus on that.  Considering how nervous the boy was acting, and how hard he was trying to pretend like he wasn’t watching him, Harry got the wary suspicion that the boy knew who he was.

“Hey, Ron.”

The door slid open again, this time displaying a matching pair of redheads that had to be related to the other boy.  They were a couple of years older.  “Listen, we’re going down to the middle of the train.  Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” Ron mumbled, squirming a little in his seat.

Harry just got a bare glance and a nod from the older boys who didn’t seem to recognize him, then they were gone.

Ron snuck another anxious glance at him and Harry resisted the urge to smooth his fringe down over his scar.  He assumed that it was too late now, anyway.

Harry decided to just ignore the other boy, and he turned his attention back to his book.

“Are you really Harry Potter?”

Harry withheld the urge to sigh as he lowered his book in response to the blurted question.  “Yes,” he nodded neutrally, trying to remember that he wasn’t allowed to be himself.  He had to be the Boy-Who-Lived here.

“And have you really got… you know…”  He pointed at Harry’s forehead.

“Yep,” Harry nodded as lightly as he possibly could when he would have rather snapped at the rude boy. 

“So that’s where You-Know-Who…?”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes, and shrugged instead, “I guess.  I don’t remember it.”

“Nothing?” Ron asked eagerly.

Harry wondered how he was supposed to make it through seven years of this crap without killing anyone.  Well, surely it would get better once people got used to the idea of The Harry Potter within their midst.  “Nothing,” he lied firmly.  He waited a moment, but Ron just continued staring at him, so he looked back at his book.  He’d barely found his place and started reading again when Ron spoke.

“I heard you went to live with muggles.  What are they like?”

Harry gave the question a moment of thought, filtering his answer through the personality he was trying to project.  “They’re pretty much the same as witches and wizards,” he finally decided on.  “Some are nice and some are mean and some are smart and some are daft.”  No need to point out that he was beginning to suspect Ron fit into the “daft” category.

“Really?  Weird…”

Harry smirked a little and decided to try to steer to conversation toward the other boy.  “What about you?  Were those your brothers that came in before?”

“Fred and George, yeah,” Ron nodded, suddenly glum.  “I’ve got six in all.  Five brothers and my little sister, Ginny.  I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts.  You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to.  Bill and Charlie have already left.  Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch.  Now Percy’s a prefect.  Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny.  Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first.  You never get anything new, either, with five brothers.  I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.”

Harry blinked at the information overload and tried to commit it all to memory while Ron pulled a decidedly disgusting rat out of his jacket.  It was fat, gray, and asleep.  Harry made a mental note to have another talk with Rhast about not eating anyone’s pets because he was pretty sure the snake would think that rat looked delicious.

Personally, Harry wasn’t at all impressed by Ron’s whinging.  He was depressed about hand-me-downs?  At least they fit him pretty well, even if they were obviously getting a bit worn.  And maybe he had five brothers to live up to, but Harry had his own completely unfounded reputation to live up to.  From what he’d gathered thus far, the wizarding world was basically expecting him to be the next Merlin.  He doubted that it would be possible to exceed anyone’s expectations of him, but it would certainly be very easy to disappoint them.

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless.  He hardly ever wakes up,” Ron was going on.  “Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff-  I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

His ears went pink at almost admitting that he was poor, and he went back to staring out the window.

Harry contained another sigh.  He very much doubted that he was ever going to be friends with this boy who seemed so threatened by wealth and popularity – both of which Harry had in excess just because of who he was.  He cast around for something else to talk about.  He thought of mentioning Athena, but he figured that would just upset the boy more.  “At least you grew up in the wizarding world,” he said finally.  “I didn’t even know that it existed until a month ago.”

Ron did look slightly cheered at that.

“I just hope I’m not the worst in the class,” Harry added with a self-deprecating smile.  He didn’t _really_ think that he’d be the worst, having studied hard over the last month, but part of him was still afraid that he would be.  And even if he wasn’t, he didn’t doubt that he’d disappoint everyone if he wasn’t the best in his class.  After all, he’d supposedly killed a dark lord when he was a baby.  Surely, by eleven he’d learned to pull thunderbolts out of his arse and juggle miniature suns.

“You won’t be,” Ron said, sounding slightly pompous with his ability to be the authority on the subject.  “There’s loads of people who come from muggle families and they learn quick enough.”

The conversation was stilted and stiff, but between the two of them, they managed to keep the discourse moving.  Harry would have liked to read his book instead, but he didn’t want to ignore and insult this boy either.  That wouldn’t fit his “more than merely human” kind, intelligent, and powerful persona that he was going for.

At half past twelve, there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart, dears?”

“Oh, what have you got?” Harry asked curiously as he got up.  She started listing off unfamiliar candies and Harry grimaced.  “No, thank you, ma’am.  Did you want anything, Ron?”

The other boy blushed bright red and held up a lumpy, home-wrapped package.  “I’m good, thanks.”

Ah.  He didn’t have any money, Harry gathered.  He thought about offering to buy him something, but he didn’t want to insult the boy who was clearly rather proud.  So he just smiled at the witch with the cart again.  “Nothing for us, ma’am.  Thanks, anyway.”

He closed the door again and returned to his seat where he pulled his trunk free and quietly hissed out the password for the general storage compartment.  Another thing that Harry had learned reading _Hogwarts: A History_ : The ability to talk to snakes was very rare and the mark of a Dark wizard.  He had to do more research to figure out exactly what it meant to be a Dark wizard. The term seemed to be really common. As far as he could tell so far, dark wizards seemed to be those who used Dark magic. So he really wasn’t sure how being able to talk to snakes could make him a Dark wizard. Maybe it was just that he’d have a talent for Dark magic?  Regardless, he had figured out that letting people find out he was a Dark wizard would be about the worst thing that the Boy-Who-Lived could do.

With that in mind, he’d decided to conceal his ability.  The fact that it was so rare though, made it perfect for the passwords on his trunks, and as long as he spoke quietly enough, no one would discern that the whispers weren’t English.

Harry quickly found the lunch he’d packed for the train just in case.  He was glad that he had now because he’d rather starve than eat those sweets.  They’d probably just make him sick anyway.  He settled his bottle of grapefruit juice next to him and his lunch in his lap.  Having unlimited access to a wide variety of delicious food had allowed Harry to stretch his stomach out to something closer to normal for his age.

“So what do you have?” Harry asked lightly.

“Oh, ah… corned beef,” Ron said glumly.  “She always forgets that I don’t like it.”

“Can I try it?” Harry suggested.

“Sure,” Ron said and passed it over as though he was happy to see the last of it.

Harry smiled and took a bite.  Then he smiled more.  “This is delicious!  You want to trade?  I’ve got a steak sandwich with Swiss cheese, onions, and peppers.”

“Yeah, sure!” Ron enthused.

Harry passed over the sandwich he’d made for himself this morning and ate the corned beef instead.  Offering the trade was a nice thing to do, but that certainly wasn’t the only reason he’d done it.  The sandwiches actually were amazing.

“Did your mum make this?” he asked between bites.

Ron nodded and mumbled something through a full mouth.

Harry repressed a grimace and focused on his food rather than Ron’s lack of table manners.  “Do you think you could get the recipe for me?  This is really good.”  If his mum always cooked like this, she should get a job as a cook and the family wouldn’t be poor anymore.

Ron stared at him with his full mouth slightly gaping.  “Really?” he finally asked.

“Absolutely,” Harry nodded fervently without more than glancing at the other boy, silently hoping that he wouldn’t have to eat near him often.

“Um.  Sure.  Yeah.  I can write her tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiled and turned his attention back to his food.

Shortly after they’d finished eating, there was a knock on the door and a round-faced boy that Harry had seen twice on Diagon Alley in the last month stuck his head in looking a bit tearful.

“Sorry, but have you seen a toad at all?” he sniffled.

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him!  He keeps getting away from me!”

“Maybe you should ask a prefect for help,” Harry suggested, trying not to roll his eyes at the boy’s dramatics.  Honestly, it was a toad…

The boy sniffled and nodded, “Yeah.  I will.  Thanks.”

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” Ron shrugged.  “If I’d brought a toad, I’d lose it as quick as I could.  Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.”  He looked at the rat still snoozing on his lap.

Though Harry privately agreed with both statements, he didn’t think it was very polite of the boy to just come out and say it like that.  Honestly, he was starting to think that he would be the only child at Hogwarts with any comprehension of good manners.  He’d not had a choice in learning them though, as being anything less than perfectly polite with the Dursleys was good enough for a beating.

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” Ron said in disgust.  “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work.  I’ll show you, look…”

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand.  It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out.  Anyway…”

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again.  The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him.  She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

“Has anyone seen a toad?  Neville’s lost one,” she said.  Her tone was pompous and grating.  Her hair was a mess of bushy brown curls and her front teeth were large enough that she’d have been nicknamed “beaver” in two seconds flat back at Harry’s old primary school – courtesy of Dudley’s lack of imagination, of course.

Harry ignored her for the moment and looked at the boy.  “Could you not find any of the prefects?”

The boy blushed and looked at the girl.  “Hermione found me first.”

Harry nodded as he made sense of that.  Bossy girl apparently thought that she knew what was best and the toadless boy was evidently not assertive enough to question her.  He looked at the girl to tell her the same thing he’d told the boy, but she’d spotted Ron’s wand and was already opening her mouth.

“Oh, are you doing magic?  Let’s see it, then.”

She invited herself to sit next to Ron.  He looked at her in shock for a moment before, “Er… all right…”  He cleared his throat.  “ _Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”_

He waved his wand, but nothing happened.  Scabbers stayed gray and fast asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” the girl-who-grew-more-annoying-by-the-second demanded.  “Well, it’s not very good, is it?  I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me.  Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard.  I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough.  I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”

Harry nodded slightly as he was able to make a little more sense of the girl.  She was muggleborn and probably scared to death by the way she was holding herself so rigidly.  This pompous, bossy attitude must have been her defense mechanism.  Not that that made her any more pleasant to be around, but at least he was pretty sure that he understood it.  Sort of.  Understanding why people acted the way that they did was very important to Harry.  If he didn’t understand that, there was no way he could anticipate how they’d react to something that he did.  Life with the Dursleys had taught him to avoid saying or doing anything without knowing how people would react to it.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered, obviously embarrassed by the failed spell that really didn’t sound like a spell at all.

“Harry Potter,” Harry offered resignedly.

“Are you really?” Hermione said immediately.  “I know all about you, of course.  I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_.”

Harry took a deep breath and tried to remain polite.  “I’m also in _Everyday Heroes_ , _Great Wizards of Tomorrow_ , and _Who Knows You Know Who_ , and I’m sure there’s more I didn’t find.  I learned quite a few things about myself that I’d never known,” he smiled good-naturedly.

“Goodness, I didn’t realize that there were so many,” she looked distressed at not finding all of the books, though he suspected that it was because she hadn’t spent nearly as much time in the Alley as he had.  “Do either of you know what House you’ll be in?  I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor.  It sounds by far the best.  I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad…  Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad.  You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”

And she left, taking Neville with her, without even waiting for them to answer her last question.  Harry was rather glad as his tolerance for her had plummeted the instant she’d started singing Dumbledore’s praises.  She may have done a lot of reading, but she clearly wasn’t very good at reading _between_ the lines if she hadn’t noticed what a posturing prick Dumbledore was.  Well, his experience with the old man’s meddling might have colored his opinion a bit, but still…  Harry had seen that in _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ , which had talked about his epic defeat of Grindelwald.  It made it abundantly clear that the then Professor had, despite being one of the most powerful wizards of the age (allegedly), completely ignored the situation with Grindelwald until the former dark lord had been practically in his back yard.  He’d then defeated him in a single – if long – duel and gone right back to being a school teacher, though he’d become headmaster just a few years later.

People went on about how he was such a wise and selfless man with no political ambitions whatsoever, evidenced by the fact that he’d turned down becoming Minister several times.  No one seemed to notice that he was head of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the ICW – two extremely _political_ positions of power.  Two positions that he would have to give up if he was Minister.  Instead, he was head of Britain’s only notable magical school, where he spent all year influencing the minds of the children who would be the next generation’s most powerful and influential people.  No political ambitions?  Perhaps not, but only because he already held the majority of the political power in Britain.

“Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” Ron said dismally, throwing his wand back into his trunk like it was _not_ the most powerful tool of any wizard.  “Stupid spell.  George gave it to me.  Bet he knew it was a dud.”

“What house are your brothers in?” Harry asked, trying to redirect the conversation.  He wasn’t having a particularly delightful time in Ron’s company, but he’d rather not deal with the boy being sulky the whole rest of the trip.

“Gryffindor,” Ron said, seeming even gloomier, which had _not_ been the point of the question.  “Mum and Dad were in it, too.  I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not.  I don’t suppose Ravenclaw _would_ be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.”

And the prejudice rears its ugly head…  After reading about the Houses in _Hogwarts: A History_ , Harry was virtually certain that he belonged in Slytherin – and he was determined not to go there.  It would be exactly the opposite of the image he was going for.

“So what do your oldest brothers do now that they’ve graduated?” Harry asked, making another stab at redirecting to something that wouldn’t depress the moody boy.

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in Africa doing something for Gringotts,” Ron shrugged.  “Hey, did you hear about Gringotts?  It’s been all over the _Daily Prophet_ , but I don’t suppose you get that with the muggles…  Someone tried to rob a high security vault.”

As a matter of fact, Harry had heard about that.  It had happened the night of his birthday, right after Hagrid had taken the mysterious item out of the very vault that was robbed.  The goblins had been acting perfectly normally the next day, but after the news came out in the _Prophet_ , they’d gotten very irritable.  Harry didn’t think they liked having their dirty laundry aired, even if the vault had been empty.  He’d made a point of pretending like he’d heard nothing about it when he was around them and they’d mostly treated him like normal.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Harry nodded.  “Can’t imagine who’d be crazy enough to try to steal from goblins.”

“But they didn’t get caught!” Ron crowed.  “My dad says it must’ve been a powerful dark wizard to get ‘round Gringotts, but they don’t think they took anything.  That’s what’s odd.  ‘Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind it.”

Harry wondered why it had to be a “Dark” wizard that broke into the vault.  Was Dark magic more powerful than…  What was magic that wasn’t Dark called?  Was it “light” magic, or was there just regular magic and Dark magic?  Clearly, he needed to study more theory.

“What’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked.

Harry blinked at the extreme subject change.  “I don’t really follow Quidditch,” he admitted.

“What?!” Ron looked dumbfounded – which seemed a fairly natural look for him.  “Oh, you wait, it’s the best game in the world!”  And he was off, explaining the game, describing famous matches, and gushing about the broomstick he’d like to get if he had enough money.  Harry had read _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and done his best to memorize it, having realized that it was a big part of wizarding culture.  He didn’t particularly see the thrill in it though.  The game was heavily weighted toward the Seeker position, and the fact that it wasn’t timed was odd to him.  He supposed it might be kind of neat to see people whipping around on broomsticks, but he wasn’t any more than slightly curious about seeing a match.

The door opened again and Harry looked up with relief at the distraction from hearing more and more detailed descriptions of the game.  It wasn’t Granger or Neville this time, but three boys.  Two were unfamiliar, but the third was the pretty, snobby boy from the robe shop.  The first wizarding boy his age that Harry had ever met.  Though he’d inadvertently insulted Harry at the time, Harry couldn’t help but be intrigued by the boy who was such a contradiction of good breeding, lacking manners, and a shy need to prove himself that he tried desperately to hide.  Besides, the boy was sure he’d be in Slytherin, which made Harry feel a bit of camaraderie with him, even if he could never admit it.

“Is it true?” he said, looking at Harry.  “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment.  So it’s you, is it?”

Considering that the only people who’d been to the compartment to know he was there were Granger and Neville, Harry suspected the motor-mouth girl had been telling everyone.  Splendid.

“That’s right,” Harry said with a small smirk.  “You didn’t quite give me an opportunity to introduce myself last time.”  He looked curiously at the other boys who seemed strangely like bodyguards.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” he introduced carelessly.  “And my name’s Malfoy.  Draco Malfoy.”

Ron gave a slight cough that poorly hid his snigger.  Draco sneered at him, obviously deeply insulted.

“Think my name’s funny, do you?  No need to ask who you are.  My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”

Harry thought, as Ron turned a very unbecoming shade of red, that this was exactly why “good manners” were invented.  Without them, things went downhill fast.

“You’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter,” he said pompously.  “You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.  I can help you there.”

Harry contained a sigh as he looked at the hand Draco extended toward him.  He couldn’t have been much ruder, but in that last sentence, his airs had not been able to conceal his genuine desire to befriend Harry, even if he was terrible at it.  Thus far, Harry liked Draco much better than Ron.  He was snobby and proud, but he was also smart – or at least smarter than Ron seemed – and he had _some_ semblance of manners, even if he didn’t seem to feel the need to use them with Ron or anyone he thought was less than him.  Harry suspected that Draco could be fun to be around once he calmed down a little.  Ron, on the other hand…  He seemed to be all pride and temper and presumption without any redeeming characteristics that Harry had seen yet.

Unfortunately, Draco was going to be a Slytherin, and Ron most likely a Gryffindor.  Harry could not afford to befriend a Slytherin, no matter how much he wanted to.  It wouldn’t fit his image at all.

So, it was with considerable regret, that Harry made his first enemy at Hogwarts before he even saw the school.  “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” he said, just on the cold side of neutral, and didn’t let regret or apology show in his eyes when he saw the flash of shocked hurt in those silver eyes before it was replaced by indignation and embarrassment that he tried to hide.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he threatened.  “Unless you’re a bit politer, you’ll go the same way as your parents.  They didn’t know what was good for them, either.  You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and Hagrid and it’ll rub off on you.”

Harry desperately hoped not, but when Ron lurched to his feet furiously, Harry followed only a second behind.

“Say that again,” Ron demanded in a bout of idiotic bravado.  He obviously didn’t know any magic, and he and Harry were a lot smaller than the bodyguards.  If this came to a fight, it wouldn’t end well for them.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Draco sneered, apparently having come to the same conclusion as Harry.

Harry searched furiously for some way to diffuse the situation without looking like less than a Gryffindor.  He figured there was an even chance that he could take all three of them himself if he had to – assuming that they didn’t know any magic yet either.  They may be bigger, but he figured there was a good chance that he had a lot more experience fighting than they did, and he could take a lot of beating before he was out of the fight.  Not that he _wanted_ to start the first year at his new school by being beaten to a bloody pulp.

The comment about his parents had been a low blow – assuming that he actually cared anything about them – but it certainly wasn’t worth getting into a fight so weighted against him.

“What’s the matter, Potter?  Got nothing to say?” Draco sneered.

Oh great, so now he had to act like an idiot or be labeled a coward, which just would not do if he planned to be a Gryffindor.  “Leave, Malfoy,” he growled.  “I’d hate to bloody that pretty face of yours.” Which was actually true.

“But we don’t want to leave,” Draco replied, only slightly startled by the “pretty face” comment.  “We like it here, don’t we boys?”

Goyle stepped forward to get into Ron’s face, but a second later, he let out a scream like he was dying.  He leapt back and Harry saw Scabbers hanging off his finger, his sharp little teeth bitten deeply.  Harry reassessed the large boys and decided that he wouldn’t have any difficulty taking them both if that was how they reacted to one little bite.  It would take only one good hit to make them lose spirit for the fight.  Honestly, the moron was still screaming.  Harry had broken bones with more dignity. 

When he was three.

Before he had a chance to say anything with his improved confidence, Goyle managed to dislodge the rat, which flew across the compartment and hit the window, then all three fled like they were under attack from an entire squadron of small, furry beasts.

Harry was attempting to control the urge to smirk – or possibly cackle – when the bossy Granger girl appeared in the still-open doorway.  “What _has_ been going on?” she demanded.

“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron observed, picking Scabbers up by his tail.  He looked close, then shook his head.  “No…  I don’t believe it.  He’s gone back to sleep.”

Harry snorted quietly.

“You’ve met Malfoy before?” Ron asked as he settled Scabbers onto his bench.

“Met him in Diagon Alley at Madam Malkin’s,” Harry shrugged dismissively.

“I’ve heard of his family,” Ron said darkly.  “They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared.  Said they’d been bewitched.  My dad doesn’t believe it.  He says Malfoy’s father didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.”

Harry wondered if everyone who grew up with parents spouted their parents’ opinions like gospel.  It almost made him glad to be an orphan.  At least he was capable of independent thought.

“Can we help you with something?” Ron rudely directed at the rude girl still loitering in the doorway.

“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on.  I’ve just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we’re nearly there.  You haven’t been fighting, have you?  You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!”

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us!” Ron scowled.  “Would you mind leaving while we change?”

“All right.  I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” she said snobbishly.  “And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way.  Did you know?”

Ron glared at her as she left.

Harry just shook his head and dragged out his trunk again to get into his robes.  He was already wearing nice black trousers and his black dress shoes that wouldn’t look out of place beneath his robes.  Ron, Harry noticed, was wearing worn robes a bit too short for him, exposing his light-colored trainers beneath them.  Harry certainly wasn’t going to judge him for not having money after he’d been forced into Dudley’s old rags for so many years, but he didn’t doubt that other people would.  Oh well.  It wasn’t his problem.

Harry didn’t especially like the announcement that their luggage would be brought to the school separately, but there wasn’t exactly anything that he could do about it.  With a last, apologetic glance at his trunk, he followed Ron out onto the dark platform.  He was just beginning to wonder where the hell they were supposed to go when he heard a familiar voice bellowing, “Firs’ years!  Firs’ years over here!  All right there, Harry?”

“Hey, Hagrid,” Harry nodded, ignoring everyone who looked at him for knowing the giant – including a sneering Draco.

Once all of the first years had gathered together, they followed Hagrid down a steep, narrow, poorly illuminated path, slipping and stumbling all the way.  Harry just hoped that it wasn’t muddy.  His shoes were really new.

And then the school came into view.  There was oohing and ahhing all around.  Harry couldn’t speak.  He didn’t quite know what he was feeling.  The school was…  Well, a castle.  It was beautiful, offset against the starry sky.  More important than any aesthetic appeal though, was what it represented.  This is where Harry would learn magic.  This is where he would spend the majority of the next seven years.

Finally, they arrived at the edge of a large, dark lake and were instructed to board the little fleet of boats, “No more’n four to a boat!”

Harry climbed into a boat with Ron and somehow ended up being joined by Granger and Neville.

The ride across was quiet and uneventful, which worked for Harry who was making a mental note to learn how to swim as soon as possible.  It wasn’t his fault that the Dursleys had never taken him when they went to a pool or the coast with Dudley.

They finally unloaded onto a little dock and Hagrid led them to a door that was promptly opened by a pinch-faced older woman who was apparently McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress.  She led them passed a pair of large doors beyond which was enough chatter that Harry assumed the rest of the school was gathered there.  Finally, they stopped in a smallish anteroom, and she gave a quick introductory speech, informing them that they would go into the Great Hall shortly to be sorted into their Houses.  Apparently, their Houses would be like their family while they were at Hogwarts.  Harry tried not to roll his eyes.  He didn’t have a family and he didn’t need one – definitely not one full of Gryffindors.

She then gave a brief overview of the houses and House point system that he’d read about in _Hogwarts: A History_.  Finally, she advised them to “smarten themselves up” while they were waiting, and she disappeared through the door into the Great Hall.

“How exactly do they sort us into Houses?” Harry asked, since that hadn’t been in the book.

“Some sort of test, I think.  Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking,” Ron replied nervously.

Harry frowned and sternly told himself not to panic.  They were all first years, and he was not the only one that had just found out about magic.  It couldn’t be a test on knowledge or magic.

Yes, of course.  He was just being paranoid.  Of course, it didn’t help that most of the other students seemed to be giving in to the panic he was trying to avoid.  Granger was whispering under her breath very quickly about all the spells she’d learned and wondering which one she’d need.  Harry was a little relieved to find that he probably knew more than she did.

Several people screaming snapped his attention back to his surroundings, and he started a bit as he found himself looking at what could only be ghosts.  After a few seconds of their not doing anything but chatting, he relaxed.  Of course, they wouldn’t be dangerous.  This was a school for God’s sake.

McGonagall returned shortly and the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.

“Now, form a line,” she instructed the first years, “and follow me.”

Taking a subtle breath and trying to relax his shoulders, which were the first place he looked for tension that people were trying to hide, he blanked his face and strode into the hall among his peers.  Only the fact that he was concentrating so hard on concealing his emotions kept him from gaping at the night sky floating over the floating candles, which were above the four long tables filled with older students – all of which were staring at them.  He’d read about that ceiling, of course, but he hadn’t quite expected it to be so… realistic. Given his Muggle background, he’d been picturing something like a holographic projection.

He heard Hermione whispering some quotes from _Hogwarts: A History_ and fought the urge to roll his eyes.  That girl was going to get picked on constantly, even without the beaver teeth or that rat’s nest of a mane.  She was just completely insufferable, always trying to prove that she knew more than everyone else even though she was new to all of this magical world as well.  And if he was annoyed, he couldn’t imagine how frustrating it must be for the people that had grown up in the wizarding world to listen to her talk about things she barely understood as though she was the official authority on it.

And then his eyes wandered to the nearest table that ran perpendicular to the rest.  The teachers were here, and right in the center was Albus Dumbledore, looking the good-humored grandfather in his half-moon spectacles, brightly colored robes, obscenely long beard, and jovially twinkling blue eyes.  It took all of Harry’s restraint to avoid glaring at him.

Then the old man turned to look right at Harry as though he’d sensed his eyes.  Harry quickly forced himself to look away before he lost his composure and did start glaring.  His eyes had just settled on the ratty old hat sitting on the stool when the damn thing started singing.

It sang about the four houses, and the entire hall erupted in applause when it finished.  Harry hesitated only a moment before tentatively joining them.

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered excitedly.  “I’ll kill Fred!  He was going on about wrestling a troll.”

Harry smirked a little for effect.  This didn’t sound too hard, but he was starting to get really nervous.  Sure, all they had to do was try on the hat, but it was supposed to just know which House they belonged in.  It was going to seriously disrupt Harry’s plans if it put him in Slytherin.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” McGonagall announced, holding a long scroll of parchment.  “Abbott, Hannah!”

Harry almost groaned as he realized what was going to happen when she shouted out his name.  He made an effort to prepare himself while she went through the names, drawing closer and closer to his.  Granger went to Gryffindor after a fairly long sorting.  Harry withheld his groan, but Ron didn’t – not surprisingly.  Neville also went to Gryffindor, which made Harry wonder if he’d missed something in his assessment of the boy who seemed afraid of his own shadow.

Completely unsurprisingly, Draco went to Slytherin, and Harry tried not to let his envy show as the blonde swaggered his way toward that table.  Most of the kids over there looked so calm and collected compared to the Gryffindors.

Then, finally, “Potter, Harry!”

Ignoring the expected rash of whispering and pointing, Harry kept his expression neutral and his shoulders as loose as possible as he sat himself down on the stool and tried not to see the hundreds of staring faces as the hat was settled onto his head.  He was actually grateful when it slipped down over his eyes despite how silly he thought he must look.

“ _Not Slytherin.  Not Slytherin_ ,” Harry thought as hard as he could.

“ _Not Slytherin, eh?  Are you sure?  You could be great you know, it’s all here, in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness_.”  The voice came right in his mind with a strange sort of tingling sensation in his scalp.

“ _It doesn’t matter where I go_ ,” Harry thought in reply, his conviction absolute.  “ _I_ will _be great_.”

“ _Mmn.  Such conviction.  Such ambition.  That’s a Slytherin trait, you know?”_

“ _I can’t be in Slytherin_ ,” Harry thought back.  “ _The way that everyone sees that house could destroy me._ Not _Slytherin_.”

“ _Hm.  Well, if you’re sure_ …”

“ _I’m sure.  Any shot at Gryffindor?  That’s where everyone expects me to be_.”

The hat chuckled in his mind.  “ _Oh, Mr. Potter, I’ve no doubt Salazar would have liked you very much.  Nevertheless, the choice is yours.  Try not to get into too much trouble in,_ GRYFFINDOR!”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Harry replied silently before plucking the hat off his head.  That had been easier than he’d thought.

He did his best to keep his face set in a small smile as he moved toward the table that was cheering him on like he was some sort of trophy they’d managed to collect.  Compared to the way they’d welcomed the other Gryffindors, Harry thought this was way over the top.  He sat down next to the other first years with a strained smile and tried to avoid making eye contact with any of them lest they think he wanted to talk to them.

* * *

The very first time Severus Snape saw Harry Potter was in the Great Hall during the welcoming feast.  That disorderly mop of black hair was damnably easy to spot.  Indeed, Severus hadn’t actually been looking for him when that hair had drawn his eyes.  The boy, he discovered, looked rather a lot like James Potter.  At least, he did until he looked up toward the staff table and Severus got a look at Lily’s bright green eyes.  But no, he realized quickly.  They were _not_ Lily’s eyes.  They didn’t sparkle with warmth and excitement the way Lily’s always had.  These eyes were colder – almost alarmingly cold, actually.

He watched the boy with the cold green eyes cautiously as Potter turned his focus away from the staff table.  His face was strangely blank throughout the Sorting Hat’s song, and when it ended, it took him a few moments to join the others in clapping.  A redheaded boy – the most recent Weasley, undoubtedly – said something to Potter and the raven-haired boy smirked a little in return, but it didn’t get anywhere near his eyes.

Curiously, Severus noticed Potter’s shoulders growing steadily tenser in response to the means of the Sorting being revealed.  While his classmates relaxed, he grew more nervous.  A girl with bushy hair sorted into Gryffindor was the first reaction that Severus observed Potter give.  The Weasley boy groaned aloud.  For a brief moment, a sneer crossed Potter’s face as he looked at the boy, and then it was gone so suddenly that he’d have almost thought he’d imagined it but for the fact that he trusted his eyes more than that.  When the Longbottom boy joined Gryffindor, Potter’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  When Draco was sent to Slytherin, there was something that Severus was unable to read.  Contempt, perhaps.  Not surprising.  Severus would have to keep a close eye on his godson lest another Slytherin suffer the torment of another Potter.  Well, not on Severus’ watch.

Finally, Potter was called.  Severus expected him to swagger to the stool under the adoring gazes of the rest of the school, so he was somewhat surprised when that didn’t happen.  Curiously, he watched as the boy actually _relaxed_ as he stepped out.  Unnaturally quickly, he’d relaxed.

Severus frowned curiously as he watched the child take the seat, and he waited for the expected announcement along with the rest of the hall.  He’d expected it to be almost instant, the decision, as James’ sorting had been.  It wasn’t instant, but it didn’t take that long either.  Fifteen seconds, perhaps, and the Hat shouted out the expected House.

Severus sneered at the back of the boy’s head as he moved to the Gryffindor table.  Perhaps the boy wasn’t exactly what he’d expected, but he was close enough.  His placement in the house of the Righteous and Foolish proved that this boy was not all that different from his father.

Though he really did try not to stare at the Potter scion, he couldn’t help but notice that he was rather quiet through dinner.  He spoke very little to his housemates, but watched them closely.  Plotting how best to get them all even more firmly into his fan club, perhaps.

* * *

Harry waited until he was certain that all of his dormmates were asleep before cracking open his trunk.  “ _It’s safe_ ,” he hissed under his breath.

A very annoyed snake appeared from the animal compartment.  “ _What took you so long?”_ he demanded.  “ _That_ _is a_ terrible _way to travel!”_

Harry gave a small, commiserating smile in response.  “ _Sorry, Rhast.  I meant to give you some air on the train, but this really annoying boy sat with me almost immediately and talked the whole time.  And I didn’t realize that we’d be sharing rooms here.  This is going to make this much more complicated_.”

The snake lifted his head to look around the room, his tongue flicking out to taste the air as he took in the four other beds.  “ _They sleep loudly_ ,” he decided after a moment.

Harry smirked, and tried not to wince as Ron’s snores rose to even greater heights.  This was going to be a really long seven years.

“ _So how am I to live in here with so many others?”_ the snake posed.

Harry shook his head, sobering.  “ _I don’t know.  Maybe we’ll have to find somewhere else for you to stay during the day.  Then you can come back in here after everyone’s gone to sleep?”_

The snake considered that for a moment.  “ _I don’t wish to leave you, Master_.”

“ _No choice_ ,” Harry sighed.  “ _You can’t hide in my clothes like you did when you were little, and you can’t exactly follow me around either_.  _There’s so many people here, you’d be stepped on for sure.”_

“ _Very well_ , _Master_ ,” the snake reluctantly relented.  He often seemed to resent his size when it proved inconvenient.  The rest of the time, he was very smug about his four-meter length.  “ _I will search around when you must leave me tomorrow_.”

Harry nodded.  “ _Just be careful.  Don’t be caught in the halls between classes.  Being invisible won’t stop you from being trampled_.”

If snakes could roll their eyes, Harry sensed that he would have done.  “ _Yes, thank you, Master.  I’d have never thought of that_.”

Harry smirked at his one and only friend.  “ _Good.  Now get out of there so I can get my pajamas_.”


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

**September 1991**

****

Severus managed to avoid thinking about the Brat-Who-Lived anymore after the feast, but his thoughts were returned to the boy when he entered the Great Hall for breakfast.  That was due to the fact that the boy had beat him to breakfast.  _No one_ beat Severus Snape to breakfast.  Ever.

He cast a quick tempus while he paused in the staff entrance doorway and frowned at the _7:32_ that it displayed.  Potter must have arrived in the Great Hall before breakfast even started.

Frowning, uncertain what to make of this development, Severus took his seat at the Head Table, having received only a cursory glance from the boy who’d just finished filling his plate.  While Severus served himself and began to eat, he watched the boy surreptitiously.  Curiously, he’d filled his plate with nothing more than fresh cut fruit and a croissant spread with butter but no jam or honey.  He also avoided the pumpkin juice and drank plain white milk.

He was reading while he ate, Severus noticed, though he couldn’t tell what the book was.  It was open on the table next to the boy and he held it that way and turned the pages with one hand while he ate with the other, proving that he at least knew how to take care of a book relatively well.  He was a surprisingly fast reader if he was actually absorbing everything in the time between turning pages, which he did quite frequently.

Every time someone else entered the room, Potter’s eyes would dart toward them briefly before returning to his book.  When he finished eating, he pushed away his plate and focused completely upon his book, not appearing at all bothered by having nothing to do but read for over an hour before the rest of the Gryffindor first years were finally escorted into the Great Hall at a few minutes to nine, along with about half of Gryffindor House, which routinely came to breakfast so late.

Severus sneered at the noisy herd of children and wondered again about why Potter would have shown up so early.  He also wondered _how_ the brat had managed to find the Great Hall without an escort.  He didn’t think on that too deeply, however, fairly certain that it was a fluke of some form.  He was much more interested in the interaction between Potter and Weasley.  The redhead threw himself onto the bench next to the Boy-Who-Lived and immediately engaged him in conversation.  Severus couldn’t hear what was said, but it looked familiar and relaxed.  The Weasley boy obviously considered Potter a friend.  Potter, on the other hand, looked mildly annoyed.  Perhaps he couldn’t be bothered with a boy of so little standing as a mere Weasley.

Their exchange didn’t last too long.  Potter seemed between indifferent and annoyed the entire time.  Weasley appeared oblivious to that fact.  When the redhead slathered his plate with syrup, Potter’s lip curled in what Severus was certain this time was a sneer, but it was once again wiped away quickly as he drew his book further from the messily eating boy, as though to protect it, and he continued to read. 

When Severus returned from passing schedules to his Slytherins, Potter had already left the Great Hall.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Harry was the first one awake in his dorm even though he’d been the last to go to sleep.  Despite his month of freedom, he’d not broken himself of the life-long habit of waking around six.  He didn’t see much point in trying to break it either, actually.  He liked getting an early start on the day now that he was allowed to do what he wanted with that day.

After untangling himself from his familiar, Harry grabbed clean robes and quietly headed to the shower.  Once he was clean and respectably dressed in his new robes, he packed all of his class materials and some extra books into his shoulder bag – now bearing the Gryffindor crest – and wandered out of the silent common room, a little bewildered that not a single student of any year seemed to be up yet.

He remembered how to get back to the Great Hall, having paid careful attention last night.  So, he only got lost three times on the way there when staircases or doors or corridors didn’t lead where they’d led last night.  _Hogwarts: A History_ had not, it seemed, been exaggerating when it had described that.  It would take some time to get used to it, but he was determined to learn all the passages and tricks flawlessly as soon as humanly possible. Knowing every trick and shortcut of his old neighborhood had saved him many a beating when he was growing up. He had no intention of letting down his guard now that he was at Hogwarts. He’d already made one enemy among the students here, after all, and he figured as much as people seemed to love him for being the Boy-Who-Lived, supporters of the former Dark Lord had to hate him just as much.

It ended up taking him a little less than half an hour to find his way to the Great Hall, and it was _still_ completely empty.  In fact, he quickly deduced, breakfast wasn’t being served yet.  He checked the pocket watch that he’d bought in Diagon a couple weeks ago and found that it was just after seven.  With a shrug, he sat down at the Gryffindor table and located the transfiguration book he’d been not-reading on the train.  When the food appeared on the table, Harry checked his watch again to find that it had just gone half seven.  He made a mental note of that for the future and selected eggs, hash, bangers, and some raw fruit.  He continued reading while he ate as the professors started trickling into the room first, followed by some Ravenclaws and Slytherins, then Hufflepuffs.  The Gryffindors were the last to make an appearance and Harry had to restrain himself from shaking his head at just how much he _didn’t_ fit into his House.

When he was finished eating, he pushed his plate away and it vanished, giving him room to read comfortably while he waited.  The prefects had said that they’d get their time tables at breakfast today, so he figured he had some time to kill. 

It was almost nine before Ron came stumbling into the room still looking half asleep, and plopped himself down right next to Harry.  The other first years were just arriving too, having evidently been escorted down by one of the prefects.

“Blimey, mate!  How early did you get up?” Ron asked.

Harry suppressed a sigh at the way the boy seemed to have decided that they were best mates just because they’d ridden the train together, then been sorted into the same House.  There was nothing for it though.  He had to put up with the annoying redhead.  “Six,” he answered simply.  “I always get up at six.”

“Why?” Ron said, apparently horrified by the very idea.  He was currently scrubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and filling his plate with the other.

Harry resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose at the sheer volume of syrup that was drowning those poor waffles, and focused on his book.  “That’s when my guardians wake me,” he answered flatly.

“Well, fine, but that doesn’t mean that you have to do it now,” he protested.

“I’ve been waking up at six for as long as I can remember,” Harry said, trying to conceal his impatience.  “I can’t just turn it off.”

Blessedly, Ron finally became more interested in his food than the conversation.  Though everyone else was staring, no one seemed brave enough to try to talk to him.  Harry knew that he needed to be more open and cheerful, but he suspected that it would take him a little while to train himself to do that.  At the moment, he was afraid that he was going to be a little too honest if he kept interacting with his Housemates.

 _Finally_ , Professor McGonagall came around with their timetables just after nine.  Harry excused himself as soon as he had his, claiming that he had to get some books from the dorm.  He used the forty minutes until he had to attend his first Charms class to search out some of the classrooms he’d have to find today so that he wouldn’t have to try to do it when he didn’t have much time.

He made it back to the Charms room on time despite the fact that he swore one of the corridors had moved on him in the last half hour.  Professor Flitwick taught that class, and Harry found that he liked it well enough, even if the professor did make a bit of a spectacle of Harry by falling off his pile of books when he called Harry’s name during roll.  The first class was just discussion of theory though, and Harry found that he didn’t learn anything new in that class over what he’d studied in the course book and his supplemental reading over the summer.

History of Magic was… mind numbing.  Their professor was a ghost, which, when he first heard about it, Harry thought would be a fantastic thing.  Honestly, who could know history better than a ghost?  Unfortunately, Binns turned out to be attempting to bore them all to death so that they could sit in his class forever – at least, that was Harry’s theory.  He quickly found, however, that Binns paid no attention to what his students were doing, whether it was sleeping or playing games.  Seeing that, he took out his course book and opted to do independent study during the damn class.  He refused to be ignorant about anything just because the professor was impossible to learn from.

Transfiguration was different.  McGonagall was as strict as he’d imagined, but she did cover a lot of material fairly quickly and get them started on learning a real spell in their very first class, even if they were only changing matchsticks into needles.  By the end of the class, Harry and Granger were the only ones who’d made any progress – Seamus had somehow managed to make his explode.  McGonagall drew attention to both he and Hermione to show how Granger’s matchstick had gone all silver and pointy.  Harry’s on the other hand, still looked exactly like a matchstick.  Except that it was made of metal.  Granger clearly took it as a challenge and immediately began giving him calculating looks.

No one, he noticed, seemed at all surprised that he’d done well.  It was obviously expected of him.

The final class of the first day was Defense Against the Dark Arts, which everyone was pretty excited about.  Until they actually sat through the first five minutes.  Harry’s initial assessment of Quirrell had been correct.  A man with a stutter was a terrible teacher.  Harry had a headache listening to it within five minutes and he tried to just reread his course book instead of listening.  Halfway through the class, his head was pounding and he closed his eyes to rub his temples in some hope of a small relief.

That’s when he noticed it.  He was used to feeling that little prickling sensation when magic was used around him, but at Hogwarts, the air itself seemed to hum with magic.  By the time he’d woken up this morning, he’d been blocking his perception of it as much as possible.  That’s why he almost hadn’t noticed just what he was feeling.  It was like a pressure inside his skull that was slightly reminiscent of when the Sorting Hat had been talking in his mind and listening to his thoughts.

That idea scared the crap out of him and he spent the rest of the class very studiously focusing on his book and trying not to think about anything else.

Disturbingly, the sensation faded as soon as he was out of the room and the headache soon followed.

They now had two and a half hours until dinner started.  Harry glanced at Ron, who seemed to have surgically attached himself to Harry since first period.  “Hey, I’m going to head to the library.”

As he’d expected, Ron instantly balked.  “It’s the first day!  None of our assignments are due until next week!  Come on, let’s go to the common room and play some exploding snap!” he begged.

“Ron, I wasn’t raised in the wizarding world.  I have a lot of catching up to do,” Harry pointed out.

“What?!  You knew the answer to every question Flitwick asked you and you did better than anyone in Transfiguration!”

“That’s only the course stuff.  There’s a ton of other stuff I want to learn, Ron.”

He stared at Harry as though he’d started speaking Chinese. 

“You go ahead without me,” Harry implored.  “I’m just going to be reading anyway, so I’m sure I won’t be very interesting company.”

Ron looked slightly relieved at realizing that he didn’t have to go, though Harry wasn’t sure why he’d have thought otherwise.  Maybe it was a friend thing.  God knows, he didn’t understand what that was all about.  Though he did know through observation that friends did tend to spend a lot of time together, he wasn’t sure if that included times when only one person wanted to do something.  Did they have to compromise about every little thing they wanted to do, or just spend a lot of time doing things they didn’t want to do?  It sounded annoying to him. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” the redhead tried one more time.

“Positive.  I’ll see you later, Ron,” Harry called over his shoulder, already headed in toward where he remembered passing the library this morning.

Half an hour later, Harry had found the library – the staircases had thwarted him this time – and he spent a good minute just standing in the doorway staring in open-mouthed wonder at the… _Herculean_ collection of books.  He’d expected Hogwarts to have a library.  _Hogwarts: A History_ had confirmed that it had a library that was supposed to be very good.  But this…  He hadn’t expected anything on this scale.  Maybe he should have though.  The damn school was in a castle, after all.

Finally, he shook himself and ventured inside.  While he tried to familiarize himself with the organization of the books, he searched his mind for what he wanted to learn first.  He silently paged through all of the mental notes he’d been making lately.  There were a lot of them, but Harry was very good at remembering things when he made a point to do so.  He’d learned that early on when he’d been given verbal lists of chores and extreme punishments if he forgot anything.

Ah, the DADA migraine.  That was definitely first on the list.  Annoyingly, he spent over an hour searching through the library, not exactly sure what he was looking for, before he finally stumbled upon The Mind Arts, a tiny section – just one shelf – tucked into a dark, shadowy corner as though it wasn’t meant to be found by any but the most diligent.

Harry scanned the books available and selected several that looked the most promising based on their titles, then went in search of a place to sit and read.  The first place that he found was fairly close, but apparently, it was a little too dark and quiet as a pair of upper years – a Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff – seemed to be using it to snog.  The shocking part was that it was a pair of boys.  Harry quietly slunk away without the distracted boys noticing him and found the next best place, which was still fairly remote, but located by a window that probably made it a little too bright for those seeking secret liaisons.

Harry wasted a few minutes examining the fact that he’d just seen two boys with their tongues down each other’s throats.  It took him quite a while to get passed a few of Vernon’s more colorful rants about “freaky homos” before he realized that that sort of thing might not be such a no-no in the magical world.  After all, most of the things Vernon hated seemed to be common place here.

Eventually, he managed to push that aside with recollections of a pressure in his skull, a building headache, and the knowledge that he had to be back there tomorrow.

Despite being a fast reader – and his vastly improved eyesight had only made him faster – he didn’t make much progress before dinnertime.  The books had a lot of interesting theory in them, but little about what the various spells and techniques actually entailed.  He couldn’t find anything at all about what it actually _felt like_ when someone was using what he learned was called Legilimency.

He decided to put the books back and come back later rather than checking them out.  He didn’t trust Dumbledore.  The man was far too involved in fucking with his life.  And he was fairly sure that anything he checked out from the library would be accessible for the headmaster to investigate.  So he wouldn’t take anything out of the library that wasn’t perfectly normal, uninteresting stuff that a lot of students were probably reading.  No sense in giving the man any more ammunition to use against Harry than he already had.

During dinner, Harry made an effort to shake his troubled thoughts and converse with his Housemates.  This was the time when they were getting used to each other and he didn’t want to become known as unsociable.  That wouldn’t fit the Boy-Who-Lived’s personality at all.

So, he got to know them a little bit.  Seamus was a halfblood who was obsessed with Quidditch and had a propensity to blow things up in just about any class.  This made Harry a little nervous about sitting anywhere near the boy, especially in Potions.  Dean was a muggleborn who apparently hadn’t done any supplementary reading before school like Harry and Granger had done.  He knew almost nothing about the wizarding world, but wasn’t self-conscious about that fact.  Indeed, he seemed eager to argue about things that were “better” in the muggle world.  Like football.  Seamus and Ron almost died of indignation when he said it was better than Quidditch.  Harry pointedly stayed out of that conversation.  When he was asked his opinion, he just shyly said that he’d never been much interested in sports, which was true enough anyway.

Neville was a shy boy who didn’t talk much unless prodded into it, and when he did, it was usually quiet enough to ignore, which most of the others did.  Harry, however, recognized that Neville wasn’t stupid – certainly smarter than Ron.  There was also something that you could only see if you watched him when he didn’t realize anyone was watching.  It was an innate grace, the way he held himself, the way he used his dinnerware, the cadence of his words.  Harry was willing to bet that Neville Longbottom had been raised just as refined and wealthy as Draco Malfoy despite having obviously turned out vastly different.  The reason for his shyness was also readily apparent.  He’d evidently grown up being compared to his father – and found wanting.  Harry made a point to be extra-polite to Neville.  He’d be someone that Harry wouldn’t mind spending some time with, at least, and he might prove a good friend to have.

Lavender and Parvati were both simply annoying, always tittering about hair and fashion and boys…  It set Harry’s teeth on edge.  Thankfully, they seemed happy enough to exist in their own little world and ignore him – well, when they weren’t staring at him and whispering behind their hands and giggling…  He did not understand girls.  He did not want to understand girls…  Ever.

He left dinner a little early and headed directly back to the library to get as much reading as possible done before curfew.  He’d have to figure out how to smuggle books out of the library safely, but he didn’t want to risk it when he didn’t know if there were perhaps spells in place to catch them at it.

That gave him an idea.  He left that evening with a harmless supplemental Charms book casually concealed among his course books.  He figured that if he got caught, he could simply claim to have not realized that he’d put it in with his other books.  An innocent enough mistake.

Happily, he didn’t get caught.  He walked right out under the watchful eye of the librarian and not a word about it.

That night, he claimed that he was tired to escape the common room – easily believed as he’d been the first one up – and closed the curtains around his bed to do some reading before everyone else went to bed.  He wished that he had some of those mind arts books, but as that would have to wait, he contented himself with reading the extra charms book he’d smuggled.  It couldn’t hurt to learn more about that class anyway.

Shortly after he heard the fourth snore begin permeating the room, he heard the whisper-quiet rustle of scales over stone and turned just in time to see his familiar stick his head through the curtain at the foot of the bed.  The rest of his body soon followed and Harry closed up his book with a yawn while Rhast made himself comfortable – and made the bed seem much smaller – by coiling himself through Harry’s legs and finally piling his head on top of a couple thick coils near the pillow.

“ _Did you have any problems today?”_ Harry inquired, reaching out to gently stroke the smooth scales of his best and oldest friend.  Well, only friend, though Athena was beginning to earn herself such status, even if he couldn’t actually talk to her like he could Rhast.

“ _Problems?”_ Rhast laughed.  “ _Master, this place is amazing!  It is like it was made for snakes!  There are secret nooks just large enough for me everywhere.  I can’t see them with my eyes, but I can smell them.  They go up and down, and I think maybe through floors as well as walls.  I can get almost anywhere without crossing human paths.”_

Harry smiled at the excited snake while he considered that, then nodded thoughtfully.  “ _That might actually make sense.  One of the Founders was supposedly really into snakes.  He might have put those passages in without telling even the other Founders if it takes a snake to find them.  That’s really convenient.  Can you do me a favor and see if you can find any other passages he might have put in?  Maybe something large enough for people?”_

“ _Of course_ , _Master_ ,” the snake answered as though insulted that he’d even had to ask.

Harry smiled sleepily and stroked the snake lightly until he dozed off.

* * *

The rest of the week passed similarly.  Herbology, which he attended for the first time on Tuesday, was held in greenhouses behind the school.  It was taught by Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff House, who was a cheerful woman who approached malicious plants with a matter of fact attitude that Harry found a little baffling.  The class wasn’t altogether bad.  Having been caring for Petunia’s garden since he was four, he definitely understood the basics, though there was a ton of stuff to learn about magical plants and the special care that they required.  He and Granger quickly took top places in that class as they had all the others.  The difference was that this time, they weren’t at the very top, but right under Neville Longbottom, the shy boy who apparently had an instinctive affinity for all manner of plants.

Every day before dinner and before curfew, Harry smuggled a book back into the library and a different harmless book back out.  He was going to give it a solid week before he trusted that he was safe to take things that he didn’t want anyone knowing about.  He figured that, if they were noticing, they might ignore it once or twice, but if he made a habit of it, they’d have to say something if they realized he was doing it.  While it might be a little tricky to explain such a habit, it would be preferable to getting caught with the more sensitive material.

Harry was aware of the fact that he might be way more paranoid than was really warranted when it came to Dumbledore.  It was quite possible that the old man hadn’t intentionally destroyed Harry’s life.  It was possible that he hadn’t considered it stealing but helping when he’d decided to steal all of Harry’s mail.  Lots of things were “possible”.  It was also possible that Dumbledore was a sadist who’d sent Harry to the Dursleys just to cause him as much pain as he could manage.  It was possible that doing so was part of some elaborate scheme to crush his spirit in over to mold him into some sort of tool or toy to exploit with the wizarding public, who seemed both gullible and sycophantic in Harry’s limited experience.

Yes, logically, Harry thought his paranoia was…  Well “justified” might be a bit of a stretch, but certainly of an acceptable and functional level.

He spent almost two hours before first period, over two before dinner, and over an hour before curfew every day closeted away in that back corner of the library studying the mind arts.  He was starting to get a bit of a reputation as a bookworm and Ron had stopped even trying to convince him to join him in the common room by Thursday.  He did force himself to spend time in the common room after curfew before bed and he made a point of always being sociable at lunch and dinner.  He rarely saw his housemates at breakfast since he was usually in and out and closed into the library before they even made it to breakfast, but that couldn’t be helped.  He got up early and he was hardly going to spend two hours sitting at the breakfast table.  He’d have just gone to the library first except that it didn’t open until eight, which was usually about the time he was finishing breakfast, having arrived right when it started.

In the hour before breakfast, after he’d had his shower and dressed, Harry occupied his time by wandering around the almost silent castle with his invisible snake, exploring secret passageways.  He’d learned rather quickly that being out after curfew was dangerous.  Teachers and prefects stalked the halls until about midnight searching for wayward students.  No one was out looking early in the mornings though, which actually made sense as there were _very few_ students that voluntarily got up and about before breakfast.  In fact, there were only a handful in the whole school that Harry routinely saw in the Great Hall right about half seven – none of them were Gryffindors.

Rhast was finding dozens of secret passages every day.  Apparently, they were _everywhere_ in the castle.  He quickly found that a lot of the upper years knew about a lot of the passages and used them routinely.  Harry could see why.  Some of them might have a trick step or something, but at least most of them didn’t move.  The castle was infinitely easier to navigate with the secret passages – which was likely a security measure to slow down any invading force.

Most interesting of all, however, were the passages that only opened in response to parseltongue.  These were not marked in any way, and most of them were located on various random stretches of unremarkable wall, which forced Harry to memorize the exact placement in order to find them on his own.  Rhast was able to scent them.  They all opened to a simple “open” hissed in parseltongue, and, like the snake passages, they seemed to lead everywhere, even when it should have been physically impossible for a passage to actually fit through an area.  If he was correct in his assumption that he was the only parselmouth in the school at the present time, then these passages were, at the moment, all his.  He was seriously starting to develop a crush on Salazar Slytherin.  The man was a freaking genius!  Building secret passages that one not only had to be a parselmouth to open but have a pet snake to locate…  Utterly ingenious.

Friday morning, Harry left the library and headed down to the dungeons for his first Potions class.  He’d been hearing a lot of ominous things about the Potions professor – the Head of Slytherin – who apparently hated all things red and gold.  He certainly hadn’t ever had anything less than a scowl for Harry when they passed in the corridors or their eyes happened to meet in the Great Hall.

It was cold in the dungeons and Harry made a mental note to wear a jumper under his uniform to his next class.  When he entered the room for the first time, he found a large selection of creatures floating in jars around the walls – ingredients, he imagined.  There was a strange smell to the classroom that must have been from so many ingredients and what was probably centuries of potions fumes soaking right into the walls.

Harry had just settled down at one of the tables when Ron took the seat to one side.  Neville and Seamus sat on the other side of Harry, which was more than a little unnerving.  Ron kept casting glances over his shoulder toward the desks further back, but he didn’t move away – unfortunately.  Before he could make a plea to move, Professor Snape entered the room rather dramatically, his voluminous black cloak billowing around him.

He started with roll call, but paused when he reached Harry’s name.

“Ah, yes,” he said, his drawl slow, soft, and dangerous.  “Harry Potter.  Our new… _celebrity_.”

Harry hadn’t realized that it was possible to imbue a single world with _quite_ that much enmity for a complete stranger.  It reminded him starkly of the way Vernon and Petunia sneered _freak_ at him, and he was instantly on his guard.  Draco and his little bodyguards snickered behind their hands, which Snape ignored.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making,” he began, speaking at barely more than a whisper in the silent room.  “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic.  I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…  I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death…  If you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

Silence followed his speech.  Harry was having mixed feelings about this class.  On the one hand, he was extremely interested in potions, and had been ever since getting his eyes fixed.  He’d learned of some of the amazing things that could be done with potions and was very eager to learn the art himself.  Snape also seemed incredibly passionate about his subject – maybe more so than the other professors, which was intriguing by itself.

On the other hand…  Few people had ever looked at Harry with quite as much loathing as Snape managed.  He had no idea _why_ the man seemed to hate him so much, but it was clear that he did.  Maybe it was just because he was in Gryffindor – Snape was the head of Slytherin, after all.  Perhaps Harry was just the easiest and most obvious Gryffindor to single out, being who he was.  Or maybe Snape had just reacted to Harry’s celebrity in the opposite way of everyone else.  Maybe he’d supported Voldemort and hated Harry for supposedly defeating him.

Well, whatever the reason, Harry was already beginning to suspect that he might be better off trying to learn this subject _outside_ of class.

“Potter!” Snape said sharply, and Harry probably would have flinched if he hadn’t already been on his guard just being in the room with that man.  “What would I get if I added powered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry frowned.  He’d read about that…  Granger’s hand shot into the air and he was instantly determined to answer the question.  He wouldn’t be less knowledgeable than that annoying girl.  They were presently competing for top marks in every class – excluding Herbology – but he preferred to earn his recognition by doing the lessons well and knowing the answers whereas Granger made a spectacle of herself trying to answer every single question.  All of the teachers seemed to be getting sick of her already.

Now, he remembered reading about this…  Toward the back of the class book.  Harry opened his mouth to answer, then he met the professor’s black eyes and slowly closed it again.  Snape didn’t want him to be able to answer the question.  He was looking for something to criticize him about.  Though he’d have loved to prove him wrong in thinking that Harry was ignorant…  There wasn’t any point.  He’d faced this kind of hatred before.  Snape would find a way to humiliate him, degrade him, punish him for a crime that Harry did not yet know.  The best thing Harry could do was let him think he’d won.  At least, if he was mocking Harry for being stupid, Harry would know that it wasn’t true.

“I don’t know, sir,” he said flatly, looking the man straight in the eye.

“Well, fame clearly isn’t everything,” Snape responded exactly as Harry had expected.  Yes, he wanted a reason to demean him.  Best to let him have his way.  Snape went on, ignoring Granger’s hand, “Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry shrugged, “The storage cupboard, sir?”  There was no sense in trying to make nice with someone who clearly would never allow it.  He’d spent too much of his life trying to make the Dursleys like him.  He refused to waste any time on the potions professor.

Snape’s eyes darkened with fury.  Baiting him might not have been the best idea, but Harry hadn’t been able to help himself.  “Detention, Potter,” the professor practically purred, “for disrespecting a professor.”  Again, he ignored Granger’s desperately waving hand – she was clearly dying to prove that she knew something Harry apparently didn’t.  Draco and his goons were shaking with laughter now. 

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?” Snape said vindictively.

Harry just stared in return, wondering vaguely if Snape knew the Dursleys.  Maybe they’d collaborated on how best to make Harry’s life hell?  Well, as long as Snape didn’t actually strike him, he could deal with anything.  He was utterly immune to dispersions to his character, intellect, or breeding by this point.

“Perhaps an _easier_ question.  What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

 _Nothing,_ his mind supplied – that was actually a relatively easy one – while he shook his head and said quietly, “I don’t know.”  He barely prevented another sarcastic comment.  He really didn’t want another detention.

“Sit down,” Snape snapped at Granger, who was now on her feet waving her arm around, as though Snape couldn’t see her.  “For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death.  A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons.  As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.  Well?  Why aren’t you all copying that down?”

Everyone scrambled for parchment and quill to write it down while Harry continued to stare at Snape.  He wondered, briefly, if things would have been different had he let the hat put him in Slytherin, or if Snape would have hated him anyway, _and_ been his Head of House.  He shook that meaningless thought quickly, and started up a mental tally for wrongs done to him by Snape.  Someday, he could pay him back just as he planned to repay the Dursleys.  In the meantime, plotting that payback would keep him sane while he avoided rising to the bait thrown out to him.

* * *

 

**SSPOV**

Potter was infuriating for the mere fact that he was _not_ at all what Severus had expected.  Most prominently, he wasn’t lazy.  He arrived at breakfast right before or right after Severus every single day.  He always ate a healthy breakfast including nothing sweeter than fresh fruit.  Actually, he never ate anything sweeter than that at any meal.  In fact, he seemed rather averse to sweets in general judging by some of the somewhat humorous expressions of disgust the boy had donned from time to time when one of his housemates – usually Weasley – attempted to interest him in the puddings or pumpkin juice.

Potter spent every breakfast reading, and generally left the Great Hall by eight o’clock.  Severus had followed him the second time – to the library.  The boy evidently spent his mornings alone in the library.  A quick inquiry with Irma proved that the boy had done the same the previous day, and he soon learned that Potter did the same every day.  He ate breakfast alone at the earliest opportunity, reading a book the whole time, then retreated to the library just after it opened for the day and remained in there, alone, until it was time for his first class.

Perhaps it wasn’t greatly surprising given the boy’s apparent interest in reading, but Severus discovered on the second day that Potter had already made himself a favorite of both Filius and Minerva by answering their every question correctly, and Minerva went on _ad nauseum_ , all about how well Potter had performed the first practical in her class.  The boy was, apparently, “even more naturally talented than his father”, which did nothing good for Severus’ impression of the brat.

Now the boy was entering Severus’ classroom for his first potions’ lesson, and Severus wasn’t sure if he was more uneasy or curious to see how the annoyingly studious Gryffindor would perform.  The class fell silent at his entrance, as expected.  His reputation almost always preceded him, even with the new first years.  That was exactly as Severus preferred it.  If the brats were properly terrified of him, they tended to be much more careful in his class.

Potter, Severus noticed as he took stock of the class, was seated between Weasley and Longbottom.  Both of the other boys were watching him nervously.  Potter didn’t look nervous.  He looked wary.  Severus spread his glare around the room during his opening speech, but his eyes returned continuously to those brilliant green that were far too old for the face. 

He paused in the roll call when he came to Potter’s name.  Time and time again over the last week, the boy had surprised him.  He seemed intelligent and studious like Lily, but the similarities were almost a mockery because he was also very different.  He had none of her effusive warmth or fiery passion.  Not even her explosive temper based on what he’d seen so far.  He didn’t know if he wanted to hurt the boy or just see how he would react, but he couldn’t resist provoking him.  Perhaps if he got angry, the resemblance to Lily would be stronger.

 “Ah, yes,” he said.  “Harry Potter.  Our new… _celebrity_.”  More venom than he’d really intended leaked into that last word.  It was the surname – saying it aloud again – that had set his blood boiling as it rarely had since that night.  He was watching those green eyes as he said it, but they didn’t ignite with anger as Lily’s would have.  Severus ignored Draco and some of the other Slytherin’s that were laughing at Potter’s expense.  He ignored the Gryffindor’s who were angry on Potter’s behalf.  He focused only on the boy himself.  The boy who was – yet again – failing to meet Severus’ expectations.

Potter didn’t look angry at all.  He met Severus’ eyes squarely, cool green eyes narrowing with cautious calculation.  “Present,” the boy said after just a moment, his tone far too casual to match his eyes.

Severus held the unnervingly unaffected gaze for several seconds before moving onto the next name.  He followed the roll call with his traditional opening speech, which left the room in silence, as always.  Draco was smirking smugly, obviously certain that he was not one of the dunderheads to which Severus was referring.  Potter just continued to look calmly thoughtful.  Truly, that unshakeable calm was beginning to be seriously abrading.

“Potter!” Severus snapped suddenly, almost desperate to put some expression into those green eyes.  To force him to anger.  To… anything one might expect of an eleven-year-old.

Annoyingly, the brat didn’t so much as flinch.

“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Severus posed. The question was slightly obscure and from the second-to-last chapter of the course book.  He didn’t actually expect anyone in the room to know it, even the bookish brat.

One of the Gryffindor girls – the muggleborn that several of the other professors had already mentioned as having apparently memorized all of her course books – stuck her hand in the air.  Severus ignored her, intent on the boy whose eyes had narrowed in concentration.  He still looked perfectly calm.

The green eyes widened with sudden comprehension and Severus was surprised that the boy apparently knew the answer.  The boy opened his mouth, then stopped without speaking, and slowly closed it again as his eyes narrowed speculatively.

“Well?” Severus snapped when the boy didn’t speak.

“I don’t know,” Potter lied.

Severus stared at him for a long moment, completely shocked.  Why would the boy lie to make himself look _less_ competent?  His shock quickly turned to anger.  He may not have figured out what the boy was playing at, but he was certain that it was some juvenile joke of which Severus would probably find himself the brunt.  “Well, fame clearly isn’t everything,” he sneered hatefully at the little brat, then immediately hit him with another.  “Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Again, he saw that the boy knew the answer.  Instead of giving it though, the boy just shrugged carelessly and answered, “The storage cupboard, sir?”

Severus’ eyes narrowed as he flashed back to another insolent little brat with wild black hair.  “Detention, Potter, for disrespecting a professor,” he said smoothly, reminding himself that he had the power now.  If Potter was going to antagonize him, he would pay for it.  The infuriating brat gave absolutely no reaction to receiving a detention.  He didn’t even blink.  “Thought you wouldn’t even open a book before coming, eh, Potter?” Severus snarled furiously.  He _knew_ that the brat had opened plenty of books.  He practically lived in the library, he was leading almost every one of his classes after the first week in theory and practical both.  He was even convinced that Potter knew the answers to _these_ questions.  He was just deliberately refusing to answer, which was far more infuriating than anything else the foul boy could have done.

“Perhaps an _easier_ question,” he offered.  Anyone who had read and paid attention to the first two chapters of the class text would know this one.  “What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“I don’t know,” Potter replied, his tone careless, his eyes demonstrating that he knew exactly how easy that question was.

“Sit down!” Severus snapped at the annoying girl who’d gotten to her feet and was now waving her arm around in her pathological need to answer the easy question.  Severus truly could not believe the gall of this boy.  He was tempted to give him another detention, but he didn’t, at the moment, have any real cause.  The brat was doing a good job of being maddeningly vexatious without actually breaking any rules.

“For your information, Potter,” he all but growled at the brat, “asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death.  A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat that it will save you from most poisons.  As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.”  Though he was very nearly spitting in the boy’s face, Potter continued to look unaffected.  His eyes were hard and cold and utterly unintimidated by Severus’ most violent glare.  It was… maddening. 

“Well?  Why aren’t you all copying that down?” he snapped at everyone else who was watching in silence.

There was a sudden scramble for parchment and quill, but Potter didn’t move.  He just continued to meet Severus’ eyes calmly.

* * *

When they were paired up to brew their very first potion, Harry got stuck with Ron, which necessitated several whispered corrections when Ron did something wrong.  Honestly, Harry was sure that _Ron_ at least, had not bothered to crack open a single book before term started.  Snape stalked around the room while they brewed, spewing sharp criticism at pretty much everyone except Draco, whom he seemed to like.  So, Draco was evidently good at potions.  Harry mentally added another point to his Draco over Ron tally, and desperately wished the blonde had been a Ravenclaw so that he could have been friends – or at least friendly – with him without ruining the public imagine that he was working so hard toward.

And then there was a loud hissing sound and copious amounts of green smoke filling the classroom.  Neville had somehow managed to melt Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people’s shoes.  Within seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

“Idiot boy!” Snape snarled.  Harry’s eyes shot up to the Professor’s face as he waved his wand to clear away the spilled potion.  “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”  Harry was surprised to see what he _thought_ was fear underlying the man’s anger.  That was shockingly more human than Harry would have imagined and he entertained the idea that the man really did care about keeping his students safe.

“Take him up to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at Seamus.  Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.  “You!  Potter!  Why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills?”  Ah, that was more expected.  Now he just looked vindictive again.  “Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you?  Five points from Gryffindor!”

Harry just stared at his professor.  He might care about his students’ lives, but Harry wasn’t so sure if that extended to him.  Of course, he hadn’t been able to keep an eye on Neville when he’d been so busy keeping Ron from destroying their potion.  And he was much more worried about breaking out in boils himself.

An hour later, they left the dungeons after turning in a passable potion that just seemed to make Snape angrier.  Harry might have to work on being less competent in that class so that Snape had something relatively harmless to growl at him about.  Whatever made him comfortable.  And the further it was from the truth, the easier it would be for Harry to handle.

“Cheer up,” Ron offered.  “Snape’s always taking points off Fred and George.”

Harry nodded mutely.  “Any idea on what his detentions are like?”  Before he’d left the room, Snape had advised him to be back at eight for his detention.

Ron shook his head, “I wouldn’t trust anything Fred and George told me about it anyway.”

Harry nodded.  Maybe he’d have to ask the pair himself.  He’d like some idea of whether tonight’s punishment was standard or special just for him.

After the double Potions class, they had the rest of the day free, so Harry headed for the library immediately after lunch for his first marathon study session since arriving at Hogwarts.  He was going to have to devote some time this weekend to working on homework that he’d been ignoring all week, but he wasn’t too worried about it.  Thus far, none of his classes had been very challenging.  Not in the theory aspect, at least.  The practical was another matter entirely, though his practice with some of the easier stuff this summer had obviously been enough that he could at least match Granger in most of it.

He finally felt like he was making some progress on his study into the mind arts.  He’d managed to find one book that described in more detail what it was to use the mind arts and have them used on you.  There still wasn’t enough there to actually learn how to do much of it, but he did find that being the subject of Legilimency could feel like a pressure behind the eyes, though it varied person by person.  Some people, apparently, described it as a slight dizziness, a faint prickling, or even a mild ache, though being the subject of a less experienced Legilimens could evidently be extremely painful, and even leave the mind broken if it was done with a lot of power and no finesse.

That was unnerving, considering that Harry always had such terrible headaches in Defense class, but he soon found that it was probably unlikely that he was the subject of an unskilled Legilimens.  Evidently, only those who were very skilled were able to do it without verbally casting the spell, and he knew that he’d have noticed if someone had done that.

What he really wanted to know though, was how to _block_ it.  That was, apparently, called Occlumency.  Unfortunately, apart from the fact that it was some sort of passive magic involving meditation and something called a mindscape, there was nothing to be found about how to actually _do it_.  That was due to the fact that it was considered borderline Dark magic.  Legilimency was even worse, and legal only for licensed individuals, mostly aurors who used it in questioning. 

He was faced with a dilemma though.  He _needed_ to learn this, as he was convinced that Quirrell had been Legilimizing him every single Defense class – even if Harry didn’t know how he was able to do it without eye contact.  He figured that he had a few choices.  First, he could try to go to his Head of House or the Headmaster with his suspicions.  He didn’t even really consider that option.  First, he didn’t trust adults in general to actually help him.  Second, he didn’t trust the headmaster specifically, and suspected that his Head of House would go straight to Dumbledore if she didn’t dismiss his claim out of hand.

His other options…  He could wait until winter break and try to find something in Diagon, or even venture into Knockturn Alley.  That had some potential, but Knockturn Alley might be somewhat dangerous and he _really_ couldn’t imagine waiting that long.  Defense class was a nightmare with those terrible headaches and the necessity to not think about _anything_ besides school work the entire time.  He didn’t dare to let his mind wander to anything else even for a moment, and he was constantly paranoid that it had, as well as being paranoid that Quirrell had sensed that he was paranoid, and always worrying about _why_ Quirrell was doing that and what he’d do with any information that he did glean.

Option three was to get into the Restricted Section and look for more information in there.  That seemed like his best choice at the moment.  The problem was that he was trying to lay low and not let Dumbledore find anything incriminating or non-Gryffindor about him.  If he got caught in the Restricted Section, that could be a serious problem.  Still, of his available options, that was the best.  So he just had to be smart and not get caught.  He wished he could just try to get a pass, but from what he’d heard, no one under fourth year _ever_ got a pass for the Restricted Section.  That meant he was going to have to exercise extreme caution, which meant taking it slow.

Which, unfortunately, meant dealing with Quirrell for a while longer.

On his way down to dinner, Harry managed to get hold of the Weasley twins and drag them aside for a quick chat.

“What’s up, ickle Harry?” one – Fred, he thought – asked.

“Yes, what can we do for you?” the other added

“I’ve got detention with Snape tonight,” he admitted, then waited while they both congratulated him on getting a detention in his first week of school, then waxed poetic in mock concern over Ron not managing such a feat.  “Right,” he nodded when they finally wound down.  “Well, I was just wondering what I could expect to happen during the detention,” he admitted.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Fred said immediately.  “Our first detention with Snape-“

“–yes, we managed to get it together–“

“-he had us milking scorpions for their poison-”

“-while they were awake-“

“-and stinging.”

“He let us have the antidote though,” George added, “so it really wasn’t too terrible.”

“Once last year,” Fred started again, “we had to pluck spider eyes from live tarantulas.”

“But again,” George provided, “plenty of antidote.”

Harry stared at them blankly.

“Near the end of last term,” George said after a moment of silent staring, “he harvested our fingernails for ingredients.”

Fred nodded his agreement, his face twisted into remembered agony, “It was horrible.  But, he did give us a potion to grow them back.  See?”  They both turned their hands to display ten perfectly normal fingernails apiece.

Harry stared at them some more, his expression completely blank. 

The twins stared back, their expressions calculating.

“Very interesting,” Harry said at last.  “Now, are you going to tell me the truth, or should I just go ask someone else?”

The twins both adopted simultaneous indignant expressions and started going on about how insulted they were at being doubted.  They went on for several minutes while Harry patiently waited.  Finally, they just stopped and exchanged a look.  Then they nodded and looked at him again.  “We’re very impressed by your Great Harry Potterness.  How did you know?”

Harry considered lying, but then he figured that it was unlikely anyone would believe this pair if they _did_ tell the truth about something.  After a quick glance around ensured that there were no portraits or curious students close enough to eavesdrop, he answered.  “I’ve been tortured before, and I promise that I wouldn’t describe it like you did,” he said flatly.

Both twins blinked several times and exchanged a meaningful look before considering Harry again.  “How about this,” Fred posed.  “We’ll tell you the truth if you promise to back up our story when Ron gets his first detention with Snape.”

Harry smirked a little at that.  “Deal.”  Ron had said that he wouldn’t believe Fred and George, but if Harry seconded them, it is very likely that he would.  And it sounded funny.  It was hardly his fault that Ron was dumb enough to fall for it.

George shrugged, “He just makes us scrub out cauldrons.”

“Of course, they are the nastiest that he can find,” Fred added.

“Or he has us preparing potion ingredients.”

“Also the nastiest that he can find.”

Harry smiled.  “Thanks, guys.”

“Don’t forget your promise!”

“I won’t,” he assured them before hurrying off to dinner.  As soon as he was done eating, Harry made his way to the library to cram in a little more reading before heading for the dungeons.  He used the parseltongue passages to get there more quickly as Ron wasn’t trailing him for once and the corridors were pretty empty.  Slytherin’s passages did not move like a lot of the others in the castle, and they were more plentiful the lower one went in the castle with the majority of them being in the dungeons.  He imagined that one could get anywhere in the dungeons without ever crossing a standard corridor.

He arrived outside Snape’s office door almost ten minutes early, having not wanted to take any chances on being even one minute late.  He was absolutely certain that Snape would love any reason to punish him and Harry had no intention of wasting any more nights in detention than absolutely necessary.

Harry was a little surprised when he was merely told to scrub out cauldrons.  It wasn’t pretty and there did seem to be an awful lot of them, but he’d mostly been expecting something worse than other students would have to do just because Snape seemed to treat him as though he were special – in a very negative way, of course.  He obviously didn’t complain in any way, shape, or form, but he did sneak glances at the professor throughout the evening as he tried to figure out how the man could possibly hate him so badly.

By the time it was over, Harry was mostly convinced that Snape had either been one of Voldemort’s followers that managed to escape Azkaban, or he had just been a devout sympathizer.  Either way, he suspected that it was his supposed defeat of the Dark Lord that had made the potions master hate him so much. 

He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.  Of course, there was the fact that he didn’t credit himself with having defeated Voldemort, being that it seemed impossible that he could have had anything to do with it, being a baby and all.  Even assuming that it had been his fault somehow though, how was he to take it that Snape hated him for it?  He spent a few moments trying to imagine how he’d feel if some baby was credited with killing a man that he followed like that.  Then he had to stop because he couldn’t imagine ever being in that position.  He didn’t like the idea of being a follower of anyone or anything.  He’d spent enough of his life at the mercy of others.  There was no way he’d ever submit to something like that willingly.

Snape didn’t release him until after curfew, but Harry had no difficulty returning safely to the tower without encountering Filch since he used the Slytherin passages to do so.  When he curled up in bed that night, he decided that he’d keep an eye on Snape.  He needed to know more about the man to decide how he felt about the man’s attitude and what he should do about it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains material paraphrased or quoted from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Chapter 9, (just a tiny bit).

* * *

**September 1991**

Over the first two weeks of school, Harry divided his time fairly equally between learning and posturing.  He very much preferred the former, but he knew that he couldn’t neglect the latter.  As annoying as he found it, he also found that playing the perfect Gryffindor – the superhuman Child Savior – seemed to be working out quite well.  He still drew a lot of attention, but not nearly so much as he could have.  People looked at him and they saw what they’d expected to see from the first time they’d ever heard his name.  As he’d hoped, a hero was interesting, but not nearly as interesting as a mystery or a scandal.

Based on what he heard people saying about him, he figured his little act was working as well as he could have hoped.  Everyone commented on how smart he was with an air of smugness, as they’d clearly _known_ that he would be.  They talked in pleased surprise about how _nice_ he was, exchanging stories about what he’d done for them or what they’d seen or heard that he’d done for someone else.  It was stupid things, too, that would have never been mentioned were he anyone else.  Things like helping to pick up someone’s books if they dropped them in the corridors, or helping his partner in class to figure out the lesson that he already knew, or lending a hand to extract a foot from a trick step.  Meaningless little things.

He had developed a bit of a reputation for “Ravenclaw tendencies” in response to the copious amounts of time he spent in the library.  After a week of learning about the Mind Arts, Harry had spent Saturday getting caught up on his homework.  Given that he pretty much knew all the theory that he was supposed to write about in the essays and had to give very little time to looking anything up, he was able to finish the entire week’s worth of assignments before dinner.  He was very happy to go back to his extracurricular studies, which just seemed _much_ more important at the moment.

With his goal of learning Mind Arts now on hold until he could enter the Restricted Section, Harry turned his attention to figuring out how to get in there without getting caught.  He was sure that there must be spells to prevent anyone from just walking in there when no one was looking.  So he had to figure out how to first identify those spells and then how to circumvent them.  It was a tedious process when he was so impatient, but he refused to risk the image he was so carefully cultivating by cutting corners now.

After spending all of Sunday and what time he could on Monday searching for the means with which to identify the spells, he stumbled across a reference in a warding book that spoke of Magesense.  That led him to searching out books explaining Magesense.  It was, apparently, a passive magical discipline in which one learned to focus in just such a way to _feel_ magic.

Harry perused several books on the subject before confirming that his ability to sense magic was apparently _not_ something that most people could do without training.  He was incredibly smug about that, though of course he didn’t tell anyone about it.  He’d learned very quickly with the Dursleys that it was best to conceal his talents.  By Thursday, Harry had been able to determine that his ability was a natural affinity for Magesense.  It was rare, and apparently exclusive to very magically powerful individuals.

So, he was extremely pleased for several reasons as he began delving more deeply into Magesense.  His natural affinity basically conquered the first and most difficult part of learning the discipline.  Once one was able to feel magic, he had only to learn to control it and to identify different types of magic by feel.  With that in mind, he began paying a lot more attention to the sense and what it could tell him.  He soon discovered that charms felt different from transfigurations, defensive magic from offensive, and the more he studied it, the finer his understanding became.  Soon, he could identify the subschools of magic as well, and he was beginning to be able to differentiate the magical signatures of his classmates and teachers – he could now tell Fred and George apart.  With practice, he should be able to learn a lot about them based on those signatures, including their innate magical strength, aptitudes, and the residue left on them when they’d been working certain types of magic recently.

He still wasn’t enjoying his Defense class – at all – and had decided that he’d have to do some independent study to really learn anything since he was so distracted in class.  Despite still being a long way from finding a way to protect his mind, he was quite pleased with his progress in Magesense, and that was enough to mollify him for the time.

The second week also began flying lessons.  Harry couldn’t help but be excited to learn to fly.  It was _flying_ for God’s sake.  The annoying part was that the announcement of the upcoming lessons was enough to send every halfblood and pureblood in first year into spontaneous fits of bravado.  Apparently, they’d all flown before and were all masters of it by the way they talked.  In the four days between the notice being posted and the first class actually taking place, Harry had heard at least two students explain how they’d taken private lessons with an International Quidditch star and _out-flown_ the individual in the very first lesson.  There were also a lot of fairly incomprehensible boasts about all the complex maneuvers that everyone evidently knew how to do instinctively.

Harry did his best to ignore the idiots who, he was convinced, would make fools of themselves in their first lessons when they proved that they were full of shit.  In Gryffindor, only he and Neville seemed immune to the urge to boast of flying skills.  Well, Granger, too.  Both of them seemed prone to turning alarmingly white or green at the mere mention of it.  For Granger, Harry suspected a fear of heights.  For Neville, he was getting the sense that the other boy most feared making a fool of himself as he had absolutely no self-confidence.  Personally, Harry preferred to go the route of modesty.  Apparently, everyone thought he’d be a natural flyer like his father had evidently been.  Surely the Boy-Who-Lived must be good at _everything_.  Harry just tried to look shy and remind everyone that he was muggle raised and therefore had never even been on a broom.  He doubted that he’d do that much worse than most of the first years, and he hoped that they’d all be too busy trying to live up to their own boasts to pay that much attention to him.

At lunch on Thursday, Granger was apparently trying to make up for her fear of flying by pompously regurgitating lists of flying tips that she’d found in books in the library.  Privately, Harry cheered her feelings of inadequacy regarding flight.  While she was busy memorizing flying tips, he was honing his Magesense – clearly the more important study.  He was determined to increase the gap between them in magical skill and knowledge.  He wanted top marks in his classes to go with his persona, but he was much more invested in _being_ better as opposed to _looking_ better, so he had no problem with honing skills that he couldn’t show off whereas he was pretty sure that the only reason Granger learned anything was for the potential to rub her superiority in the faces of her peers.

Harry had been getting a lot more mail since the start of school than he’d gotten before.  Apparently, everyone’s interest in him had been renewed by his return to the wizarding world.  Luckily, he was never in the Great Hall when the mail arrived, so no one could monitor whether or not he was getting mail and how much he was getting.  Sadly, Dumbledore wasn’t the only one that he thought might pay attention.  Pretty much everyone in the school seemed to care about the minutia of his everyday life.

He’d taken to going through his mail trunk once a day while everyone else was at breakfast so that he could sort it privately.  Most of it was meaningless letters from fans and supporters that he merely skimmed through before tossing into a pile to burn in the common room after everyone else went to sleep – he did that once a week.  He was very surprised by the number of marriage proposals that he was getting – he was _eleven,_ for God’s sake! – and he’d had to devote a little of his study time to figuring out how to properly decline without giving offense.  The last thing he needed was more enemies, after all.  The fact that almost a quarter of the proposals were from his own gender proved his theory about homosexuality in the wizarding world.

He also received gifts quite often.  Most of them were trinkets or gift vouchers for various stores.  A lot of the stores themselves sent him gifts, eager to have the famous Boy-Who-Lived seen using their products.  He used what was useful and stored the rest in his trunk.  Throwing away a perfectly good anything was difficult after so many years of wishing that he had things of his own – pretty much anything of his own.  At the very least, he figured that he was unlikely to ever have to worry about buying gifts for his “friends”.  All he’d have to do is delve into his trunk when it was time for Christmas shopping.  He did keep everything carefully labeled with the date received and the sender’s information to ensure that he didn’t regift anything inappropriately, and he didn’t intend to do that with anything that was too unique as to be instantly identifiable. 

He did have to spend a few minutes before bed every night writing thank you notes though, and Athena was getting her exercise delivering them all.  And he’d thought he’d have no real use for her when Hagrid had bought her… Well, he could appropriate school owls when necessary, but he much preferred Athena for the more important deliveries. He trusted her to get his letters where they were supposed to go quickly.

At lunch on Thursday, Harry discovered that Neville had received an item called a Remembrall from his grandmother that morning.  Apparently, it turned red if the person holding it had forgotten something.

“Can I see it?” Harry asked eagerly.  Neville passed it over quickly enough and Harry studied it in fascination, trying to figure out how it knew if you’d forgotten something.  It felt of Charms and – he suppressed a shudder – Legilimency.  After studying it for a minute, Harry decided that it was some kind of focused Legilimency.  It didn’t feel very strong, and it didn’t give him that skull-prickling sense of invasion that being around Quirrell always gave him, so he doubted that it could do much more than sense something specifically related to having forgotten something.  He wondered if there was some sort of specific mental tell inherent to having forgotten something.  He couldn’t imagine how else such an apparently simple charm could determine that.  It certainly wasn’t anything as advanced as examining unconscious memories versus conscious awareness and identifying dissimilarities.

After a few minutes, he blinked and gave Neville a sheepish smile for how long he’d been staring at the ball, which did not turn red for him.  He wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t forgotten anything.  His mental notes were very carefully organized.  He found the object fascinating, but its relative uselessness was made very apparent when Neville complained of not being able to remember what he’d forgotten.

Neville had only just reclaimed possession of the Remembrall when Draco sauntered his way over, flanked by his body guards.  He snatched it out of Neville’s hand and Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation as he diligently followed Ron in leaping to his feet as though he might start a fight in the middle of the Great Hall with all the teachers watching.  Snape would take far too much pleasure in punishing him for attacking one of his snakes.

“Give it back, Malfoy,” Ron growled in a way that he probably thought was intimidating.  Harry, having grown up with Vernon Dursley, highly disagreed.

“Or what, Weasel?” Draco sneered.

“Or you’ll regret it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped inanely, trying not to cringe and hoping that he sounded suitably Gryffindor.

Draco seemed to think so, judging by the way his sneer grew considerably.  “Do you think I’m afraid of you, Potter?” he asked doubtfully.

Harry smiled unpleasantly as he caught a general theme of movement from his peripheral.  By the way everyone facing the other direction seemed keen on pretending like they weren’t paying attention all of a sudden, Harry was sure their little spat was about to be interrupted.  And considering their expressions, he was judging that it was McGonagall – she was feared, but not reviled on this side of the Hall, so it couldn’t be Snape.

“Not _me_ ,” Harry said significantly just a moment before…

“What’s going on?” Ah, he’d judged correctly.  And Draco looked somewhat unnerved by Harry’s apparent ability to see directly behind him. Delightful.

“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor,” Neville said timidly.

Draco dropped it back onto the table with a faint scowl just for Harry, which was quickly replaced by casual innocence as he said, “Just looking,” and quickly wandered away from the Gryffindor table and the scowling Head of House.

* * *

At three-thirty, Harry joined the rest of the Gryffindors in heading out onto the grounds for their first flying lesson.  They found the Slytherins already there, so they must have come from a closer class.

“Don’t worry, Neville,” Harry placated the trembling boy as they approached the brooms lined up on the ground.  “You’ll do fine.”  He made sure to position himself next to the nervous boy, and was dismayed when Granger managed to get the broom on his other side.  Luckily, she seemed too nervous to be quite as annoying as usual.  She was presently listing all of the tips she’d learned under her breath.

Harry distracted himself from his own nerves by studying the magic he could feel from the broom at his feet.  Charms, he noticed first.  Enchantment subschool, not surprisingly.  He couldn’t identify the original enchantments on the broom, simply not having had enough experience with such spells to judge.  The feel of the magic was… light was the only word that came to mind.  Not like “as opposition to dark” but rather “as opposition to heavy”.

When Madame Hooch instructed them to pick up the brooms, Harry had only opened his mouth to say up when his broom leapt into his hand. His eyes widened a little at the unexpected responsiveness, but he managed to keep his smug grin to a minimum as he turned his attention to a struggling Neville beside him.

“It doesn’t really have anything to do with the word,” Harry advised the shy boy. “You just have to be more assertive with it. That’s a magical broom,” Harry pointed at it, then pointed his finger at Neville, “You’re a magical person. That broom was literally made to do what you tell it. So just relax, and let it do what it was made to do.”

Neville gave him a look that was far from convinced, but his shoulders did relax slightly.

“Take a deep breath,” Harry encouraged. He nodded slowly as Neville did as instructed. “Now, look at the broom, and try again. Don’t force it."

Neville glanced nervously from the broom to Harry and back to the broom. Then he gave a small nod, and said, “Up.”

And the broom rose smoothly, if somewhat slowly, into his hand.

Harry grinned with satisfaction. “What did I tell you?"

Neville looked completely astounded at his success. He also looked inordinately proud of himself.

Granger, Harry had noticed from the corner of his eye, had been listening to him lecture Neville as well. It took her a few more tries, but she got her broom to rise to her hand as well.

Madame Hooch then had them all mount their brooms. She moved along the line, correcting their grips as necessary. Once Harry was certain that he was doing it right, he set about helping Neville. The other boy’s biggest problem was that he seemed to be intent on strangling his broom. Harry suspected he’d have cramps in both hands in less than five minutes.

If possible, Neville paled even further when Madame Hooch began her countdown.

When she got to two, Neville kicked off early.

Harry, having been focused on helping Neville, found himself following the other boy up into the air before he’d even stopped to wonder if he should.

“Come back, boys!” He vaguely heard Madame Hooch shout below them.

Neville was rising fast, twisting and spinning uncontrollably. He was whimpering and clinging to his broom for dear life. It took a bit for Harry to safely close the distance between them. Just when he was getting close enough to put a hand on Neville’s broom, the other boy panicked. They must have been thirty feet in the air by now, and Neville’s broom took off like a rocket. He managed to hold on for maybe a second, and then the broom was taking off without him and Neville was falling toward the ground.

Harry reacted.

He took off like a shot, diving sharply toward the ground to intercept the falling boy. He got his broom underneath them and yanked up hard. He felt his toes scrape the ground, but the broom didn’t crash. Harry slowed it to a stop, and dismounted slowly helping a violently shaking Neville to his feet.

That’s when he suddenly became aware of the applause.

He turned slowly to see all of the Gryffindors clapping enthusiastically. The Slytherin’s were looking sulky and annoyed. Madame Hooch was rushing over to them, looking merely worried.

Harry was unnerved to think that he’d just performed a truly Gryffindor stunt with absolutely no premeditation, nor even pause to consider his actions. God, he hoped Draco hadn’t been right about the Gryffindors rubbing off on him…

Well, at least he _did_ seem to be a natural on a broom. He hadn’t even had to think about controlling it. It had felt entirely instinctual.

“Are you boys all right?” Madame Hooch demanded more than asked.

“F-fine, Pro-professor,” Neville stammered, then turned wide eyes on Harry.  “You… you saved my life…”

Harry mentally grinned as he realized that, yes, he _had_ saved him.  Which meant that Neville Longbottom now owed him a Life Debt.  He’d read about Life Debts in passing only. He’d have to do some more research into the subject now. A bit of Gryffindor brashness had served him well this time.

“What else could I have done?” Harry shrugged self-deprecatingly.

* * *

 

**October 1991**

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” Ron’s loud, obnoxious voice came from just in front of Harry as they were leaving the Charms classroom. “She’s a nightmare, honestly,” the annoying boy was complaining to Dean and Seamus.

Harry sent a glare at the back of the idiot’s head, and opened his mouth to chastise the other boy. Harry may not like the know-it-all any more than anyone else, but that didn’t mean that the Boy-Who-Lived would stand for that kind of bullying. Before he could say anything, the girl he was about to defend shouldered her way through the crowd, her body language hunched with anger, embarrassment, and shame.

“I think she heard you, mate,” Dean muttered to the now blushing redhead.

“Well, you weren’t exactly being quiet,” Harry bit out irritably. “Honestly, Ron, _think_ before you speak.”

Despite the redhead’s best efforts, Harry and Ron were very far from being friends. Of course, the other boy’s chances may have been slightly improved were he not pathologically averse to any and all things related to the library and/or studying. Personally, Harry couldn’t stand the boy, but the Boy-Who-Lived was not allowed to hate any Gryffindors. Dislike, sure, but never hate. His hatred must be reserved for Slytherins and other Dark wizards and witches. That was what prevented Harry from allowing anything more than annoyance into his dressing down of his fellow Gryffindor.

With a shake of his head and a sigh, which were carefully calculated to convey disappointment in the other boy’s lacking maturity, Harry moved around the other boys and their small audience of classmates to make his way to their next class alone.

Granger didn’t turn up for their next class, and she was not seen all afternoon. On the way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Granger was crying in the girls’ bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Harry frowned irritably at that little nugget of information, and gave a few moments’ consideration to what the Boy-Who-Lived would do about it. He supposed, that despite their relatively good-natured competition for top marks, being the preternaturally perfect human being that he was, he really ought to go and try to find her. Make sure she was okay.

It sounded incredibly bothersome, all things considered, but needs must. Maintaining his mask was important. He’d suspected that after his first day in Diagon Alley, but after spending a couple months at Hogwarts, he’d come to understand just how dangerous it would truly be to be seen as a Dark wizard. And he didn’t doubt for a moment that these people would decide he was Dark if they got a very close look at his true personality. He still hadn’t figured out whether or not he actually _was_ Dark. It seemed to be such common knowledge in the wizarding world, the true meaning of a Dark Wizard, that no decent definition actually existed in print.  Though, honestly, he was beginning to wonder if there was a real difference between a Dark Wizard and a wizard who was an adversary to a Light Wizard.

Dark Wizards were barely tolerated in Magical Britain unless they happened to be filthy rich, but even then they were loathed in many circles on principle alone, and widely distrusted, always the first to shoulder blame for any wrong done near them.  Harry had read about the token trials given to many suspected Death Eaters – read: Dark Wizards arrested on any available charges – and he had no doubt that there were innocent Dark Wizards in Azkaban.

With that in mind, Harry turned around and headed for the girls’ bathroom that Parvati had mentioned. On the bright side, at least he would be able to avoid the Great Hall during the most sweet-laden feast of the year.  He could always stop by the kitchens for dinner if he didn’t make it to the Great Hall in time.  One of Slytherin’s passages led directly into the kitchens, which is how he’d stumbled upon them a couple of weeks ago in one of his early morning explorations.  He’d thought, at first, that he was going to be in a lot of trouble when the teachers heard about his wandering.  That fear had been short-lived, however, when the house-elves populating the kitchen had proved to be incredibly accommodating.  Judging by the fact that he’d heard nothing about it from Dumbledore or any of the professors, Harry could only conclude that they hadn’t told on him.  Indeed, they’d seemed thrilled at the opportunity to directly serve a student, and the Boy-Who-Lived in particular.

Harry’s ruminations flitted from his mind as he approached the bathroom in which Granger had reportedly sulked all afternoon.  He allowed himself just a moment to sneer in distaste at the delicate constitution of the bossy overachiever.  It wasn’t as though Ron had said anything all that cruel after all.  It had been more of the painful honesty sort of thing.  Rude, certainly, but fairly mild.

With a stifled sigh, Harry pushed the door open a few centimeters without trying to look inside.  “Granger?  You in there?” he said loudly, his voice neutral.

There was the sound of a startled sniffle and then her grating voice – slightly less annoying than usual as she spoke through a stuffy nose, “Potter?  What are you doing here?  Go away!”

“You’ve already missed lunch and you’re about to miss dinner,” Harry said reasonably.  “You shouldn’t let Ron get to you so much.  He’s thoughtless and boorish and extremely insecure.  He dislikes you because you intimidate him, and with good reason.  It is really unlikely that he’ll ever amount to a fraction of your magical skill and finesse if he continues as he has.”

He fell silent and waited for a long moment before she finally spoke, her voice nearer the door.  “Are…  Are you actually trying to make me feel better?”

“Of course,” Harry said with false patience and cheer.  “I know that we’re competitive in classes, but that doesn’t mean that I dislike you.”

“You’ve seemed like it,” she responded slowly, her voice laden with equal parts hope and suspicion.  It was a tone Harry knew well from his own past.  Dudders had liked to pretend that he was going to do something nice for Harry only to cruelly change his tune as soon as Harry began to believe him.  Of course, Harry had learned better than that many years ago.  Granger had obviously suffered her share of bullying in the past, but she wasn’t nearly so jaded as Harry.

“I don’t actually know you,” Harry pointed out.  “It’s been a little overwhelming for me so far, trying to keep up with classes and deal with discovering that I’m famous.  Everyone thinks that they know me, you know?  They don’t actually care who I am.  They all just want to believe that I’m the child-hero that they’ve built up in their minds.  So far, I’ve just been trying to…”

“Fit in,” she finished quietly when he hesitated.

It took a huge effort to not grin as she went ahead and related to him with hardly any effort on his part.  “Except that that’s kind of impossible for me,” he muttered deprecatingly, but then quickly changed the subject, lightening his tone, “Will you come get something to eat with me?  Sitting around in a bathroom can’t be that interesting.”

She huffed a watery laugh and a moment later, the door was pulled open from the inside.  Her eyes were red and puffy, but she’d clearly wiped off all sign of tears.  “Okay,” she said with a tremulous smile.

Harry gave himself a well-deserved – in his opinion – pat on the back for so quickly manipulating the supposedly brilliant girl.  Her willingness to believe the tripe he’d just spouted only highlighted the inherent weakness of hope and the vulnerability in trusting people in general.

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes before Granger – Hermione, he supposed he’d have to get used to after this delightful “bonding” experience – cautiously inquired, “How…  How’d you know where to find me?”

Harry bit his lips and tried to look sympathetically embarrassed.  “Lavender and Parvati were talking about it on the way to the Great Hall…”

She paled at realizing that that meant that at least all of the first year Gryffindors were aware of the fact that she’d been holed up crying her eyes out.  He could well imagine how embarrassing that would be, except that he’d never let himself end up in a situation like that.  He’d learned a long time ago that there wasn’t any point in crying.

He was trying to figure out what meaningless platitude to use to calm her this time when a highly offensive odor caused him to slow his step.

“Ew!  What _is_ that smell?” Granger complained a moment later.

Harry ignored her, his mind flying to assess and dismiss possible explanations.  It wasn’t the scent of dungbombs, with which he was sadly familiar after two months in the same House as Fred and George Weasley.  It wasn’t a scent that he’d ever smelled in the castle before and he’d been virtually everywhere during his early morning wanderings.

It was highly unlikely that the smell was anything mundane.  It smelled like… excessively strong, musty body odor with hints of rotting meat and morning breath.  It was exceedingly unpleasant, but before he could begin to dwell on that fact, another rather substantial clue made itself known in the form of heavy, lumbering footsteps drawing closer to them.

Ogre, giant, orc, troll… went through his head instantly, followed by, _too stinky, too small, too large… mountain troll?  Cave troll?  Marsh troll?_

Before he could try to reason any further, the creature appeared from around the next corner, far too close for comfort. 

_Mountain troll_ , his mind helpfully supplied. 

He drew his wand with a slightly trembling hand while Granger screamed like the completely worthless girl that she was.  Just went to show how pointless all her academic “brilliance” really proved to be.

“Run!” he snapped at the sniveling chit even as his mind assured him that they hadn’t the slightest hope of outrunning the troll that had just settled its eyes on them.  He started backing up slowly while he mentally sifted through his memory for the nearest passageways that may prove narrow enough to slow down if not hold off the beast now advancing on them much more quickly than he was withdrawing, though it wasn’t charging yet, which he was sure that it would do if he tried to run.

Granger hadn’t moved at all, apparently frozen in terror.  Useless…

There weren’t any passages close enough that he would definitely be able to reach them, he decided.  If he got very lucky, he might be able to make it to one of the regular secret passages that would definitely be too small for the troll.  Maybe if it got hold of Granger, that would slow it down enough that he would have time.  Enticing as that idea was, however, a glance at the tittering portraits lining the corridor told him that it would utterly demolish the Boy-Who-Lived persona that he was crafting so very carefully if they were to report that the Great Savior of the Wizarding World had shoved a mudblood in front of the troll and saved himself.

He almost laughed at the thought, but forced himself to remain focused.  He’d survived too much to be killed by a creature less intelligent than his owl.  Part of him questioned what the bloody hell a troll was doing wandering around unchecked in a _school_ of all places, but the general uselessness of the question had him dismissing it quickly from his mind.  He’d worry about it later, when the troll was dead and he was safe.

He quickly reviewed what he knew about trolls.  Their strengths were their enormous physical strength and size.  They were deceptively quick despite being generally lumbering creatures.  Their olfactory sense was extraordinary whilst their vision was quite poor.  They also had skin that resisted most magic that contacted it, meaning that Harry’s admittedly dismal defense repertoire was virtually useless in any traditional application.  Their greatest weakness was their very low intelligence.  They were capable of only very basic speech in a language comprised more of grunts and growls than anything.

So, Harry would have to outwit the thing.  Running wasn’t going to work.  Evading it through small passages was going to be a last resort as he wasn’t sure he could make it to any of them in time.  Attacking it directly would be pointless as nothing that he could cast would have an impact.

The troll was getting distressingly close now, and Granger was still standing there despite Harry’s steady retreat.  Unwilling to get blamed for her death without at least making a show of trying to save her, he barked out a quick Cheering Charm and flicked it at her back.

It was almost comical the way that her posture instantly relaxed only to tense again an instant later.  It did the trick though, and she responded when he snapped, “Run, damnit!”

She backpedaled rapidly several steps, then turned and sprinted right passed him.

Harry didn’t have any time to appreciate her finally listening because the troll responded to its prey fleeing.  It took a lunging step forward and the club swung toward Harry as Granger was already out of immediate range.  His overdeveloped survival instinct took over and he threw himself back far enough to avoid a messy death, the cold, rank gust of air that slapped into him and the floor-cracking impact were enough to drive home just exactly how dead he’d have been had he been hit.

A second later, he was dodging again.  Fuck, that thing was fast.  His mind flew as he ducked and dove and rolled, fighting for each additional second of life.  He knew that he couldn’t go on like this.  He’d learned to move like a snake to avoid Dudley and his gang or at least minimize the damage they did him.  He’d learned to roll with Vernon’s blows, which had greatly decreased the number of broken bones he suffered.  Unfortunately, this troll was on a completely different realm of danger.  It would take only a glancing hit from that club to kill him.

_The club!_   Of course!  Trolls were extremely magically resistant, particularly to Light magic, given they were Dark creatures.  Its weapon, however, was nothing more than a branch of wood – or likely tree trunk – and was completely susceptible to his admittedly miniscule repertoire of spells.  One good part about only knowing a couple handfuls of spells was that it was a swift process to mentally go through them and choose the best.

One more too-close-for-comfort call and his wand snapped up just as the troll was lifting the club for another swing.

_Diffindo_ was a spell they had learned in Charms the first week.  It was a slicing charm they’d learned to cut parchment from the roll to the desired length.  What they hadn’t learned in class, but Harry had picked up through his study into Magesense, was that how much power was put into a spell _mattered_.  Thus far, in classes, they hadn’t touched on that, merely casting the spells generically.  Harry had found that casting the spells for class was easier if he tried to use _less_ magic – only just as much as was necessary to achieve the desired effect.  Most of the time, he hardly even felt the magic move through him.  So, if an almost non-existent application of magic could cut through parchment, it stood to reason that he could do a lot more if he tried a lot harder.

With that in mind, he put as much magic as possible into the spell, almost shouting the incantation in his desperation.  To his slight surprise, the cut was so swift and efficient that the club didn’t even come apart until the troll made to swing forward, at which point the large part of the club simply tumbled to the floor behind the beast.

The troll grunted in surprise when the weight suddenly disappeared from its hand and turned stupid, beady eyes down as it opened its hand, trying to figure out why it was now only holding the “handle” of the weapon.

Harry didn’t wait around to see how long it would take it to figure out what was going on.  The moment it turned its attention away, Harry turned and sprinted toward the nearest passage that would be small enough to prevent the troll following him.

He had only a moment to think he’d escape before he heard the troll begin to give chase, and he wasn’t sure if he’d gotten enough of a head start to make his destination.

For one brief moment, he thought he’d made it.  He took a single step into the narrow hall of an ordinary secret passage when he felt an immense weight slam into his side and then wrap around his torso.

Panic screamed through his mind as he comprehended the fact that he was inside the troll’s fist.  He was one squeeze away from being a red stain on the floor.  By some miracle, the troll didn’t squeeze, but instead lifted him toward its face as though to examine him more closely – or perhaps to take a bite of him – he didn’t wait to find out.  His arms were pinned to his sides, but his hand clutching his wand protruded freely next to his thigh.  The range of movement was terrible, but his desperation was exceptional as he cast the spell they’d learned in Charms that very day.  Ironically, it was the very spell that had brought him here as a result of Ron and Granger quarrelling over the lesson.  He couldn’t get a full breath, but he wheezed out the incantation as exactly as he could manage.

If he’d been able to spare enough brain power to consider it rationally, he’d not have expected it to work.  For all his obsessive studying, he was _not_ that skilled with magic.  Oh, with enough concentration and practice he could manage as well as anyone, but it most definitely didn’t come easily and this was certainly _not_ an award-winning performance.  He _didn’t_ have time to think about it though, and it _did_ work.

He wheezed, “ _Wingardium Leviosa,_ ” and a half-arsed swish and flick below the troll’s restraining fist.  The world was becoming distressingly fuzzy around the edges.  His head was pounding in time with his heart, rendering him deaf apart from the rushing of his blood.

A sudden moisture on his face and a sharp pain in his shoulder were his only warning before the grip around him loosened.  He tumbled to the floor, barely able to comprehend the fact that he was free before a great weight landed on his leg and his ankle screamed with pain.

Harry hissed a wordless gasp at the new injuries while his head began to clear as he sucked in sweet, fresh air.  The troll appeared to be dead, he noted dispassionately, more than a bit surprised that his desperate spell had actually worked.  He’d levitated a pike from a suit of armor right into the troll’s back, aimed vaguely toward the heart.  Happily, it appeared that trolls had their heart in roughly the same place as a human.  He’d put a lot of power behind that spell, too.  He knew that that spell wasn’t actually supposed to be able to move something quite so fast.

A little _too much_ power, he surmised as an attempt at sitting up reminded him about the pain in his shoulder.  He was bleeding.  The pike had gone all the way through the troll and hit him, though he didn’t think it was too deep.  He was more concerned about his ankle, which was trapped under the troll’s arm.  He was pretty sure that it was broken.  He pulled at it a bit to try to free it and cringed at the lance of pain that leapt up his leg.  Yep.  Broken.

It took a few moments of staring at the place the troll was on top of him before the entire incident began to properly sink in.  He’d just been attacked by a fully grown mountain troll right in the middle of a Hogwarts corridor.  Hogwarts, a school touted in _Hogwarts: A History_ as the most secure building in Britain.  More secure, even, than the Ministry of Magic.  That could only mean that either the reputation was all hype – like it being the _best_ school of magic when they couldn’t even employ a living History professor or keep a decent set of school brooms – or someone had deliberately let the thing into the school.  Someone with enough access to the wards to make it possible. 

Honestly, he didn’t know which was more likely. 

Before his paranoia could start with a list of suspects, a small herd of teachers came barreling into the corridor with Granger slinking along in their shadow.

McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell.  Two of which would have been on his list of suspects.  Quirrell was at the top, though.  Anyone who would illegally invade the mind of a student on a daily basis was unlikely to have a problem with endangering their lives.  Snape actually seemed to care about his students’ survival.  Harry honestly couldn’t say if Snape would care if _he_ lived or died, but letting in a troll endangered more students than just him.  There was, of course, the chance that the troll had nothing to do with him and he’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he preferred to focus on worst case scenarios first.  That way, if he was wrong, he’d be pleasantly surprised.

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall gasped, looking somewhere between concerned and annoyed.  “Are you all right?”

Harry took a moment to remind himself to stay in character despite the fact that he had a dead troll lying on top of him, and gave his Head of House a shaky smile.  “Good evening, Professors.”  He then looked passed his teachers to his fellow student and adopted a look of concern that was completely fabricated.  “Are you okay, Hermione?”

He considered it a success when every one of them gaped at him.  Even Snape, though he managed to look furious at the same time.

* * *

Severus stared at the infuriating conundrum of a Potter with a vexing combination of rage and effusive relief.  When Granger had shown up stuttering about a troll and Potter, shaking head to toe with a complexion to rival one of the ghosts, he was sure his heart had stopped for a moment.  Vivid images of Lily’s son a broken, lifeless mess had flashed before his eyes and he’d set off toward the sudden commotion, hardly even aware of his fellow professors flanking him or Granger yet trailing along behind.

The continuing crashes, grunts, and roars had spurred him on, culminating in a final, very loud crash just seconds before he rounded the final corner.  When he saw the tiny, bloodied form lying partially beneath the troll, there was a moment in which he’d been certain that his worst fears were confirmed.  Then the boy had lifted himself up onto his elbow and greeted them like nothing was wrong, expressing fear for Granger, of all people, when he was so obviously wounded.

Paradoxically, Severus wanted nothing more in that moment than to kill the little menace for frightening him so badly.

“Mr. Potter, are you all right?” Minerva gasped into the stunned silence following the boy’s idiotic question.

“I think I could do with a trip to the infirmary, Professor,” the boy said after a brief pause. 

Potter glanced down toward his bleeding shoulder with a faint frown, and Severus felt his first stirrings of unease.  That level of calm given the situation was absurd in a child his age.  He’d almost attribute it to shock if not for the fact that the boy had demonstrated a similar imperturbable countenance despite Severus’ concerted efforts to cause some sort of emotional response.  The lack of reaction to such an injury was concerning on more than one level.  No matter how much Severus detested the boy – justifiably given the boy’s deliberate defiance in his class – no child should respond to pain that way.  It was possible that he had a physical condition that prevented him from feeling pain, but given his lack of reaction to fighting a troll, Severus was betting there was more to it than an insensitivity to pain.

Quirrell had stumbled his way to the wall and promptly slid down to the floor, staring at the troll like it might get up and attack him despite the growing pool of blood and still chest that made that extremely unlikely.  Severus sent the fool a sneer.  He didn’t believe that act for a moment.  He was convinced that Quirrell had been the one to let the troll into the school and he was very sure that it hadn’t been an accident.  He’d caught the cretin very close to the third floor corridor before Minerva had recruited their help in searching the upper corridors.

Minerva finally lifted her wand and levitated the troll off Potter’s leg.  The boy sucked in a sharp breath and his lips went white, but he gave no more reaction to the obvious pain.  Once the troll was settled safely away from the brat, Minerva hurried over to him and conjured a stretcher.

“My ankle is broken,” Potter said quietly when Minerva turned her wand on him to levitate him onto the stretcher.

Minerva just nodded and took extra care to avoid jostling him. 

Severus found it interesting that the boy had said with such surety that it was a break.  He’d obviously had broken bones before to be so certain that that was the case now.

When Minerva instructed Quirinus to take care of the troll, Severus sent him a poisonous glare and followed her toward the infirmary.  He was sure that Quirrell wouldn’t make another try for the Stone tonight.  He’d share his suspicions with Albus again tonight but he had little hope that the old man would take them any more seriously now than he had two months ago.  Severus couldn’t help but wonder if someone would actually have to die before Albus would pay attention.  The old fool was so busy being certain that he was always right that he wouldn’t consider any other possibility.

In the hospital wing, Severus and Minerva quickly found themselves relegated to waiting at a reasonable distance while Poppy saw to her patient.  Minerva was pacing agitatedly, muttering under her breath what seemed to be a series of complaints against the intelligence of Potter, Albus, herself, and anyone else who may have in any way contributed to the current situation.  The mutterings were spread liberally with expletives.

Severus, beside taking some amusement from Minerva, spent most of the time watching Potter.  He was now more certain than ever that there was something _wrong_ with that boy – not that Albus would listen to his concerns about that either.  The boy reacted to danger and pain far too casually.  Over the last decade, Severus had seen all manner of child come through Hogwarts.  Most of them tended to be weak, naïve, selfish little cretins, convinced by a lifetime of holding their mummy’s hand that all things Dark and Dangerous were either fiction or at least far removed – never something that would bother them.  Pureblood, halfblood, or muggleborn made no difference in that regard.

There were some – distressingly few – who had managed to grasp some concept of the real world prior to arriving at Hogwarts.  They were generally mildly more tolerable, though Severus had found precious few first years with whom he would willingly spend time. 

And then there were those who came to Hogwarts completely devoid of any manner of rose colored glasses.  Those who had already sampled the worst of humanity and lived to tell the tale.

As much as he hated – _loathed_ – to admit it, Potter fit into the last category.  He was sure of it now as he watched Poppy cast a spell to check for an insensitively to pain, having obviously noticed what he had.  No, the boy’s ability to sense pain was normal.  It was his ability to cope with it that was abnormal, and that only came with experience.  A few more quick diagnostics that the boy wouldn’t understand and Minerva was too distracted to notice proved that Potter had no medical conditions that could explain his experience with pain.

Poppy glanced over her shoulder and her eyes met his.  Yes, she’d come to the same conclusion.  Once upon a time, it had been Severus in that bed enduring a similar set of diagnostics.  It hadn’t been until his third year that he’d been hurt badly enough for her to notice – Potter and Black, of course.

Albus strolled his way into the infirmary just as Poppy was turning back to her patient.  “How is he, Poppy?” he asked directly despite knowing how the woman hated to be interrupted while she was working.

“A puncture wound in his shoulder and a broken ankle.  I’ve already healed the wound.  The break in the ankle was not clean.  I can mend it, but he’ll require a small dose of Skelegrow.  Also, given the troll blood on the spear that pierced his shoulder, he will need a blood surfactant.  He’ll certainly spend the night here, but if there are no problems, he’ll be able to leave for breakfast in the morning.  Now, if you don’t mind, Headmaster, perhaps you will allow me to tend to my patient,” she bit out irritably without once actually looking at him.

“Of course, Poppy,” Albus smiled, his eyes twinkling brightly, as ever appearing completely oblivious to the fact that anyone may find him an infuriating, inferring old codger who’d do better to mind his own ruddy business.

Severus turned his eyes back to the boy only to find the boy staring back at him with those cold green eyes.  They were almost a mockery of Lily’s eyes, to be so similar and yet so very wrong.  He sneered at the brat though it may have had slightly less venom than usual.  The fact that Potter had very likely been abused by his muggle relatives did not make him any less detestable, but Severus wasn’t quite up to his usual level of loathing at the moment.

* * *

Harry had read, briefly, about healing magic, but he hadn’t fully comprehended just how amazing it really was until it was used on him.  Seconds after being placed before Madam Pomfrey, Harry’s pain was entirely gone with what he could only guess was a numbing spell.  He couldn’t keep up with the spells she was casting or the array of strange words and runes that floated over his bed for a few seconds so that the mediwitch could read them before flicking her wand and sending them to settle onto a blank parchment sitting on the side table.  In between those spells, she did some that healed his shoulder with only the smallest scar to remember the incident by and he suspected healed his broken ankle as well.

His thoughts were confirmed when Madam Pomfrey explained Harry’s condition and her prognosis to Dumbledore, who just breezed in as though he was out for a casual stroll and inquired about Harry’s medical information.  Harry made a mental note to do some research into exactly how much authority Dumbledore had over Harry as a student.  If it was too much, he’d seriously look into options for transferring schools or even dropping out.  He’d do his best to teach himself before he’d give Dumbledore too much power over him.  Thinking of that, he really should look into what legal rights he did or did not have as a minor without magical guardians.

“Poppy, do you think I might borrow a few minutes of your patient’s time before he goes to sleep?” Dumbledore asked in that overly good-natured way that he had. 

Madam Pomfrey didn’t look happy about it, but she clearly saw the genial request as a demand as she acquiesced with little more than a look of protest.  “Ten minutes, Headmaster.  No more.  The boy has been through enough for one night.  He needs rest, not interrogations.”

Dumbledore did a remarkable job of looking taken aback by her insinuation.  “There will be no interrogations, my dear,” he laughed at the absurdity of it.  “I merely wish to speak to the boy.”

“Of course,” Madam Pomfrey smiled back in an overly sweet way that Harry suspected was a parody of the old man’s manner.  It made him like her a bit.  “Ten minutes,” she added in a tone that was not at all pleasant.

Harry watched with trepidation as the professors took Granger out and the mediwitch left him alone with one of the most powerful wizards of the time – a man whose dubious attentions had hurt Harry on many levels so far.  He did not feel ready for this.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore smiled warmly as he settled into a gaudy purple armchair he’d casually conjured.  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.  Though this is not the ideal circumstance, I’m glad that we’ve finally got the chance.”

Harry twitched slightly at the familiar address and forced himself not to squirm as the old man went on.  “You’ve wanted to talk to me?” Harry asked warily.  “I haven’t done anything wrong, have I, Headmaster?”

“Oh, not to my knowledge, Harry,” Dumbledore chuckled jovially.  That incessant good cheer was proving to be even more annoying up close than at a distance.  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about?” he asked with a twinkle in his true blue eyes as he tilted his head down to get a better look at Harry over his half-moon spectacles.

“No, sir,” Harry assured with a weak smile, trying to keep in mind how the Boy-Who-Lived would react to this situation, but it was hard when he was coming down off the adrenaline of a near-death experience.  All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball with Rhast and sleep.  When he glanced up at the headmaster again, the twinkle in his eyes had dimmed.

“I imagine you’re tired,” he almost sighed and Harry spared a moment of paranoia to wonder if the man was somehow reading his mind without him knowing it, but he quickly pushed that thought away, certain that he would feel _something_ , particularly since he’d been honing his Magesense recently.  “Well, I imagine Madam Pomfrey will be returning to oust me from her domain soon enough,” he chuckled, “so I suppose we should get to it.”

Harry did his best not to gulp at the ominous nature of that statement.  He turned his face down to help hide his expression, but watched the old man through his lashes, unable to completely look away from the man he considered to be, at the moment, his most dangerous enemy. 

“Can you tell me what happened tonight, Harry?  Why weren’t you at the feast?”

Harry forced his shoulders to loosen slightly.  Of course, the man wanted to know about what happened with the troll.  It was his school and students had almost died tonight.  He’d have to ask questions.  Harry told his paranoia to settle down and cleared his throat before speaking.  “I heard that Hermione was in the bathroom crying because of something Ron said about her this morning.  She’d already missed lunch and some classes, so I thought I should go and see if she was okay.  See if I could talk her into coming to the feast.  I found her and she did agree to come with me.”

“That was very nice of you, Harry,” Dumbledore smiled warmly.

Harry just shrugged self-consciously.  Acting uncomfortable about receiving praise for his good deeds was something that he was confident he’d gotten down.  “We were on our way there when we ran into the troll.  We smelled it first,” Harry carried on with his explanation, “but then it was right there before we could even realize what was causing it.  And, ah…  Hermione just froze when we saw it.  I yelled at her, but she wouldn’t move, so I cast a cheering charm on her, and that kind of snapped her out of it.  I told her to run and she did then, but when she started running, then the troll started attacking me.”

“Why didn’t you run as well, my boy?” Dumbledore interrupted, looking terribly concerned.  Harry didn’t buy it for a second.

“There was no way I could outrun it,” Harry assured him.  “As soon as I turned around, it would have had me.”

“It was very brave of you to protect Miss Granger like that, Harry,” Dumbledore told him as though Harry wasn’t aware.

Harry prevented himself from saying something scathing and sarcastic in response to that inane pseudo compliment.  “Didn’t seem like there was anything else I could do,” he admitted, again pretending to be uncomfortable with the praise like any proper hero.  He wasn’t even lying.  Though he’d considered running and leaving Hermione to the troll, he’d ruled out that possibility.  Though considering how close he’d come to dying, he made a mental note to have a long talk with himself about self-preservation once he was alone.  His image wouldn’t do him any good if he was dead.

“Anyway, there wasn’t much time to think after that.  It kept swinging its club at me and I kept moving out of the way.  I’d read about trolls before and I knew that none of my spells would even penetrate its skin, so I didn’t bother wasting time with that.  Then I realized that there wasn’t anything to stop my spell from working on its club, so I cast a _diffindo_ at it and it cut the club apart.”

“A _diffindo_?” Dumbledore smiled, obviously amused at the application of the simple slicing charm.  “Very good, Harry, very good.”

Harry fought down his irritation again.  Why did the old man seem to think that Harry needed affirmation that he’d done well every few seconds?  It was like he was…  Oh.  Of course.  The old coot was trying to manipulate him.  Congratulating him at every turn for doing what he had to do to survive.  Trying to make Harry feel like the whole situation had been a wonderful adventure rather than a horrific nightmare that he never should have had to suffer in a school where he was supposed to be _safe_.

“The troll got distracted when its club came apart,” Harry went on, his tone slightly more curt, though he tried to pretend like he didn’t realize what the old bastard was doing.  “So I took the opportunity to try to run away, but it caught me right before I could get into a passage that was too small for it.  It wrapped its fist around me and lifted me up.  I don’t know what it was going to do after that, but I didn’t think I’d survive it, so I used a _wingardium leviosa_ to levitate a spear that I could see behind it and I stabbed it.  I think I used a little too much power because the spear went all the way through and got me, too.

“Then it fell down and the professors showed up.  Sir,” he pressed on before Dumbledore could interrupt with more inane praise, “why was there a troll in the school?  It says in _Hogwarts: A History_ that the wards around this school are the best in Britain, so how did it get in?”

He took quiet pleasure in the fact that Dumbledore looked like he really didn’t want to answer that question.  “I don’t know, my boy,” he settled on.  Harry gave a moment of thought to reciprocating the old man’s familiarity by calling him Albus or something but he decided that he wasn’t quite ready to be that aggressive with a wizard that held much more power than him at the moment.  “I promise you that I will be investigating that very question.  For now, we must simply be grateful that no one was seriously hurt.  Thanks to you.  In fact, I’m going to see to it that you receive an award for special services to the school for saving your classmate and for stopping the troll before anyone else could be harmed.”

_Making me a hero rather than a victim,_ Harry concluded silently.  He didn’t complain though.  It would actually work fantastically toward his image.  He could try to use this incident to make Dumbledore look bad if he went to the press or something and tried to make himself out to be the unfortunate victim of Dumbledore’s failure to protect his students, but he was not ready to take the old man on just yet.  No doubt with him being as loved and respected as he was, Dumbledore would brush the whole thing off with minimal damage and possibly even make Harry look whiny or something in the process.  No, Harry would play along for now, but he was definitely going to keep this incident in mind if he needed ammunition against the old man later.

He needed to know a lot more about the wizarding world and its laws and customs before he would be ready to try to take on Dumbledore.

So, instead of pressing the issue, Harry just offered a shaky smile that he hoped looked overwhelmed with gratitude.  He didn’t think it should be too hard considering that he was already halfway there, feeling pretty overwhelmed with everything.

“Albus.”  Poppy’s rather annoyed voice broke up the moment and Harry tried to prevent himself from sagging with relief that she was there to chase the headmaster away.  “That was a very generous ten minutes.”

“Of course, Poppy,” Dumbledore said with a smile and a conspiratorial wink toward Harry as he stood.  “I was just about to leave.  Harry, thank you for your time, my boy.  I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

With a final, mysterious smile, the headmaster took his leave.

Harry felt shaky with relief when he was alone with the mediwitch.  That conversation had been almost as bad as facing the troll.  He may not have been facing his death, but he didn’t doubt that Dumbledore would make his life hell if Harry let him.  He’d already done it once, after all.

He accepted a pair of potions from Madam Pomfrey and read the labels.  Skelegrow, he knew, was for his leg.  She’d mentioned it earlier.

“Just one teaspoon of that,” she said as she handed him a spoon and reclaimed the bottle.  He held it while she poured it out and then grimaced and tried not to gag as he took the spoonful of foul liquid down his throat.

Madam Pomfrey reclaimed the spoon while Harry was inspecting the second bottle.  It was the blood surfactant she’d mentioned.

“How does this work?” he asked quietly, partly because he was curious and partly because he needed the distraction from his spiraling thoughts of the threat the headmaster posed to him.

She smiled faintly, “It bonds to any taint of troll blood in your system and neutralizes it.”

“What would happen if I didn’t have it?” Harry wondered, now more genuinely curious.  This kind of danger was one he hadn’t even considered.

“I don’t think you got that much in your system, so you would most likely be very sick for a few days to a week with vomiting and high fever while your body purged the contaminant.”

“But if it had been more it could have even been deadly,” Harry gathered.

She nodded briskly, “Yes, Mr. Potter.  That holds true for most creature blood, as a matter of fact.  Now, drink down that whole bottle.”

Harry made a mental note to research that when he had time.  Sadly, it wasn’t particularly high on his list.  With a deep breath, Harry swallowed down another noxious concoction, though happily this one wasn’t quite as bad as the Skelegrow.  That stuff was seven kinds of foul.

“And one more,” she said with an undertone of approval, probably for his lack of complaining. 

Harry read the label and frowned at the mediwitch, “A sleeping potion?”

“You’ve had quite an ordeal, Mr. Potter-“

“And I’m really tired out, Madam Pomfrey.  I’m sure I’ll sleep fine.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and for a moment he thought she was going to insist, but she finally just sighed and accepted the bottle back with a shake of her head.  “It’s eerie how much you remind me of another student who frequented my care once upon a time,” she muttered.

“Who?” Harry asked curiously.

She just gave him a somewhat exasperated look and shook her head, “Get to sleep, Mr. Potter, or we’ll discuss the sleeping potion again.”  She seemed to know that that would be an effective threat because she didn’t wait for his reply as she left him, dimming the lights as she headed toward her office.

Harry shuddered slightly at the thought of being drugged unconscious in the middle of an open ward where absolutely anyone in the school could walk in at any time and find him completely helpless.  He snuggled down in his blankets and hoped that he’d be able to sleep without Rhast.  It would be his first time sleeping without his friend since he was six years old.

His exhaustion proved superior to his unease and he drifted into a troubled sleep, only waking twice during the night when he was afraid he’d heard something, but a look around proved that he was still alone.  His inability to sense anyone or anything with his Magesense was even more reassuring as he drifted off again.  Nevertheless, he promised himself to learn a proper revealing spell as soon as possible.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is gore in this chapter. I don’t want to spoil anything, so I’ll just say that it is rather graphic, but brief. This story will not be focused around heavy gore, but if what is in this chapter is a bit much for you, you may want to think twice about continuing to read because it will get worse.

* * *

**November 1991**

Harry woke in the morning feeling like he hadn’t slept much at all.  He sighed and sat up wearily, rubbing his eyes.  A quick tempus spell told him that he’d slept almost an hour later than normal.  Probably not surprising given the crazy afternoon and uneasy night.  He never, ever wanted to sleep in a public room again and promised himself that he was going to do everything possible to avoid having to spend the night here again.

“ _Master_.”

Harry turned toward where he could feel his invisible familiar lurking at the side of his bed.  He felt the cool snout nuzzle at his hand and ran his fingers along the snake’s smooth scales.

“ _You are well,”_ Rhast said, though it sounded more like a demand than an expression of concern.

Harry smiled, “ _I am well, Rhast,_ ” he said quietly, keeping a cautious watch on the room to make sure he wasn’t surprised.  There were portraits in the room, but they were high up on the walls on the other side of the room and were paying no attention to him.

“ _Good.  You must not die, master.  I like this place, but not enough to stay here forever.  I would become incredibly bored without you._ ”

“ _Well, in that case I’ll do my best,_ ” Harry responded sarcastically, though he knew that his friend was just not good at expressing his concern.  Snakes were not exceptionally emotional creatures, but Rhast and he were family.

“ _I saw the smelly beast with the garlic man, master._ ”

“ _Before or after it was dead?_ ” Harry posed.

“ _Before._ ”

Harry badly wanted to pursue that line of questioning – proof that Quirrell was responsible for the troll – but at that moment he felt the approach of Madam Pomfrey.

Rhast needed no prompting to make himself scarce as the mediwitch approached.

“Awake already, I see, Mr. Potter.  How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Harry replied cautiously.

She lifted an unimpressed eyebrow.  “If I suspect you are lying to me, Mr. Potter, I will assume the worst and you may never leave my care,” she threatened in a perfectly polite tone.

Harry couldn’t help the nervous swallow her threat inspired.  “I’m a little tired and sore, Madam Pomfrey, but it’s not too bad, honest.”

His confession pulled a tiny smile onto her lips, but she didn’t comment as she pointed her wand at him and cast a nonverbal spell that created multicolored words floating over him.  It took her only a moment to examine them and nod to herself, then a quick flick of her wand had them tucking themselves neatly into the rolled scroll she was carrying – the magical version of a medical chart, perhaps.

“You appear to be recovering just fine, Mr. Potter,” she assured him.  “You can get dressed,” she nodded toward the neat pile of clothes on the table next to his bed.  “The restroom is right through there,” a gesture toward a door down the ward.  “When you are ready, join me in my office.”

“Yes, madam,” Harry nodded despite the sudden nerves inspired by her invitation to her office.  There really was every chance that it was nothing more than a formality that everyone had to do after spending a night in the infirmary, but…  Well, maybe it was his paranoia, but something about this felt… off.  Something in her tone or her posture, too minute for him to clearly define, was telling him that there was more to this.

So, it was with great trepidation that he carried his clothes into the loo and went about changing out of the pajamas Madam Pomfrey had put him in last night with a really nifty switching spell.  The clothes, he noticed, were the very same set he’d worn last night.  They’d been cleaned and flawlessly repaired overnight.  He supposed it wouldn’t take much work if one knew the right spells, but it did make him wonder exactly who was keeping Hogwarts clean.  House-elves, he supposed.  Surely, if there were a bunch of other humans working in the castle, they would see them at least sometimes.  Filch couldn’t be handling it all himself.  According to the overwhelming conjecture of the older students, the man was a squib, incapable of even the simplest cleaning charm.

If that was true, Harry couldn’t imagine why Hogwarts employed the man.  Even a weak wizard could handle fifty times the work of a squib.  So why was Hogwarts’ already insufficient budget being wasted to employ a man whose greatest skill seemed to be monitoring detentions and making them unpleasant enough that no one ever wanted to serve with him?  Surely, a wizard could manage that.  Snape did a fine job of it, after all.

Harry shook his head, brushing away the random thoughts.  He left the pajamas in the basket that he guessed was for that purpose, and took a bracing breath before relaxing his shoulders and checking the mirror to see that he looked suitably calm.

“You’re adorable, dearie,” the mirror assured him.

Harry gave a weak smile and suppressed a shudder before leaving the bathroom.  He _really_ hated talking mirrors.  He couldn’t understand why the wizarding world seemed to favor them.  The simple thought of anything watching him use the bathroom or get out of the shower was highly creepy to him.  The possibility that Dumbledore or someone else could use the mirrors as spies like the portraits just made it ten times worse.  That was the worst part about Hogwarts.  Even in the bathroom he didn’t feel safe.  Someone or something was _always_ watching.

Harry was nervous as he stepped into Madam Pomfrey’s office, but not nearly so much as he was when he took in the fact that Snape was in the room, reclined comfortably next to the mediwitch in front of the fire and sipping casually from a teacup.  Snape looked almost disturbingly relaxed, but something about him nonetheless seemed tense.  Something in his eyes, maybe.

With an effort, Harry averted his gaze from the spiteful professor and focused on the mediwitch.  “You wanted to see me, Madam?” he asked with polite neutrality.

“Yes, Mr. Potter.  Come in and sit down, please.”

Harry swallowed uneasily as he did as he was bid, hoping they couldn’t tell the way his heart had started to race.  He did his best to keep his breathing slow and even as he took a seat across from the mediwitch and professor and politely declined the offered tea.  His stomach wouldn’t accept anything at the moment, he was sure.  He resisted the urge to speak first and instead focused entirely on the mediwitch and tried to pretend that he couldn’t feel Snape’s black eyes burning into the side of his head.

“Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey began evenly, “You are an intelligent boy, so I’m going to be blunt.  You live with your aunt and uncle, correct?”

Harry felt his chest tighten.  He’d had this conversation before.  More than once.  Nothing good had ever come of it.  “Yes, Madam,” he answered neutrally.

“Are you happy with them?” she pressed.

“Perfectly, ma’am,” Harry answered with a straight face tilting his eyebrows as though curious about what she could mean.  “Sure, we don’t always get along, but no family does.  Why are you asking?”

One of Snape’s eyebrows rose very slightly, Harry saw through his peripherals, but the man said nothing.

“Some of the diagnostics that I ran last night in the course of your treatment gave some troubling results, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey explained in that same even voice that was neither suspicious nor indulgent.  “Is it not the custom in the muggle world for children to receive a set of inoculations throughout childhood?”

Harry nodded, slightly surprised that she’d been able to tell so easily.  He really had to research healing magic.  It was truly incredible, and not only for the purposes of healing.  Being able to tell so much about someone could be a huge benefit.  For example, if Dumbledore had a deadly peanut allergy, that would be good to know.  “They were concerned that the inoculations could react poorly with my magic,” he invented on the spot.

Pomfrey blinked in apparent surprise.  “That’s ridiculous.  Virtually every muggleborn that’s come through this school in the last few decades has had muggle inoculations.  Why would they think that?”

Harry shrugged, “My aunt only knew very little about magical people and the wizarding world.  Her sister was magical, but they weren’t that close.  She knew that I was magical, but she knew nothing about how to take care of me properly.  They didn’t know how to reach anyone in the magical world and couldn’t even get into Diagon Alley.  She thought it was better to be safe than sorry after I had an allergic reaction to some medicine when I was little.”  Harry had gotten very good at inventing all manner of stories to explain away anything suspicious after the second time one of his teachers called Child Services.  Just like the first time, it had ended a week later with a vicious beating for him and everyone else acting like nothing had ever happened – or worse, glaring at him like he was some kind of troublemaker.  After that, he learned to lie for all he was worth.

There was a chance that things would turn out differently if the investigation came from the magical world, but even if it did, the best case scenario was him being placed with a new family.  The last thing he wanted was to end up trapped with strangers.  Even worse, magical strangers, who would be much harder to avoid or escape if necessary.  He’d been taking care of himself for as long as he could remember.  Now he had money and a place to live that he could carry in his pocket.  It was only a couple of months during the summer, anyway.  No, he very much wanted things to remain as they were.

* * *

Severus watched silently as the boy spun a rather believable tale.  The child was a surprisingly talented liar, but Severus had twenty years’ experience on the boy and more than enough evidence to support his theory.  No child from a happy home had eyes so cold or a temperament so hard.  He was good at hiding it, no doubt.  Severus hadn’t drawn any conclusions until the evidence had been all but shoved into his face.  Add to that the fact that everyone had been convinced as to what Potter would be long before ever meeting the child – himself included – it wasn’t surprising that such a young child was doing so very well fooling them all.

Severus nearly snorted when he heard Potter say that Lily and Petunia hadn’t been close.  When he’d first met them, they’d been all but inseparable.  Later though…  On their summers home from Hogwarts.  Petunia hadn’t merely drifted away from her magical sister.  She’d come to hate her.  Truly hate.  He really should have suspected this when Albus had told him that Potter was with Petunia, but…  He hadn’t.  Petunia was always such a covetous wretch that he’d automatically assumed that she would be hideously proud of raising the Boy-Who-Lived.  And even if she didn’t realize that she was raising a celebrity, he’d have thought that she’d have gloried in the knowledge that Lily’s greatest pride and joy was her own to mold in her foul image.

But perhaps her hatred ran deeper than that.  Instead of merely taking what was Lily’s, she’d tried to destroy it.

Merlin, he hoped that it wasn’t as bad as he was beginning to fear.

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” he heard Poppy sigh.  “Please, advise your guardians that, though you may be allergic to certain things just like any muggle child, there is no reason to forbid you all muggle medical care.  It is likely that some medications may not work as well as they should or as long as they should…  In fact, please ask her to owl me as soon as possible so that I can advise her properly regarding the care of a magical child.”

“Oh.  Well, I’ll tell her, ma’am, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.  Once Hagrid brought me to Diagon Alley, she got a whole lot of books about the magical world, so I’m sure she knows all that by now.”

Severus sipped his tea again as he watched the child invent a believable excuse on the spot.  It was becoming distressingly apparent that Potter could have been a Slytherin.  In fact, he didn’t doubt that the Hat had at least considered it.

“I see,” Poppy conceded.  “Nonetheless, if she has any questions…”

“I’ll tell her, madam,” Potter promised.

“Very well.  You may head to breakfast, Mr. Potter.”

The boy nodded as he stood and shot one suspicious and confused look toward Severus, likely wondering at the purpose of his presence, before taking his leave.

Poppy sighed heavily once Potter was beyond hearing.  “That isn’t the first time he’s lied about his living situation,” she observed.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d have bought that.”

Severus hummed his agreement as he finished his tea and placed the cup gently on the table.

“There’s nothing I can do to help him unless he admits that he needs it,” she noted quietly, her tone achingly sad.

Severus frowned, recalling the first time he’d heard her use that tone.  It was when he’d been promising her that there was nothing wrong with his own home life.  “You can’t, but…” he hesitated, feeling rather dubious about his own plan.  “I will speak with Albus.  If anyone can manage something-”

Poppy’s inelegant snort made him give up on the statement.  “We both know how likely that is, Severus.”

He nodded grimly in return, “Yet, I must try,” he admitted. 

_That’s the truth of it,_ he mused on his way out of the hospital ward.  He truly _had to_ try.  He could feel the Vow tightening his chest at the mere thought of being unable to help Potter.  As much as he may dislike the brat, he had Vowed to protect him, and right now he suspected that sending the boy back to those muggles may just equate to failing to protect him.

It was nearly time for breakfast to begin, but Severus didn’t bother heading to the Great Hall in search of the old coot.  Albus, old Gryffindor that he was, never arrived at breakfast before eight and often closer to eight-thirty.  Upon reaching the gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office, Severus muttered the inane sweet of the month, licorice whips, and was admitted to the revolving staircase.

“Do come in, Severus, my boy,” Albus called out just as Severus was stepping onto the landing outside the office door.

He didn’t even bother to roll his eyes at the old man’s childish little game.  Any first year with a brain could deduce that the gargoyle and stairwell were laced with security warding of the spying variety.  Severus had no care if the old man wished to use his little omniscient trick to impress the gullible ingrates of the inferior Houses, but why the man insisted on carrying out the charade with him, of all people…  It was possible that the man was succumbing to senility.  Sadly, it was rather more likely that he was hoping people would think that, thus underestimating just how dangerous he really could be.

“Headmaster,” Severus greeted as coolly as ever.  When the old man started up with the “my boy” nonsense, Severus felt inclined to fight back with as much formality as he could muster.

“Please, do sit, dear boy,” Albus twinkled annoyingly.  “Would you care for a lemon drop or some tea?”

“You know that I cannot stand those insipid sweets of yours, Albus,” Severus snapped, lowering himself stiffly onto the edge of one of the overly soft chairs placed before the massive desk.  “And as for tea, as we are shortly to have breakfast, I hardly think it the time.”

“Ah.  Quite right,” Albus chuckled in a fashion that just screamed, ‘how silly of me’.  “Well, then, perhaps I would have more luck in inquiring as to the purpose of your visit as you’ve just pointed out that we’ll see one another at breakfast shortly.”

Taking a slow, steady breath to suppress his strong desire to simply get up and leave the old fool’s presence while his own sanity remained intact, Severus decided that there was no point in beating around the proverbial bush and giving the old man more opportunity to annoy him further.  “I have serious cause for concern regarding Mr. Potter’s living situation,” he said directly.

Albus blinked and sat back suddenly, looking perfectly shocked by the direction of the conversation.  “Harry?  Why…  Has he said something?”

“Much louder than words, Albus,” Severus snapped.  “Yesterday, he fought a troll, was nearly killed, and was seriously wounded and the boy did not scream, cry, nor even so much as whimper.  He has no medical condition that may explain the lack of reaction, leaving the only possibility that he has simply become so acquainted with fear and pain as to handle the situation with equanimity.”

Albus looked genuinely puzzled and maybe very slightly amused, “‘The only possibility’, Severus?  I know that you are rather prone to the dramatic, but I believe this discussion warrants a more candid approach.  Honestly, everyone reacts differently to such situations and it is impossible to predict what sort of reaction that may be until the situation has arisen.  I believe that Harry showed us a very strong character and a brave soul to go with his giving nature and academic acumen.  The child is truly something exceptional.  I have spoken with the portraits and they have supported Mr. Potter’s story. 

“Despite the fact that he and Miss Granger have not been close, when he heard that she was distraught, he sought her out and offered comfort.  Truly, neither of them can be faulted for being out of bounds when they happened upon the troll, and Harry’s actions were simply extraordinary as he risked himself to protect Miss Granger.

“No, Severus, my boy, I believe what you fail to grasp – the factor that has stymied your deduction – is that Harry is not his father.  Nor his mother, I must admit.  He is the best of them both and so much more.  He has Lily’s thirst for knowledge and kind spirit, James’ unshakable bravery and natural magical talent, and more, a sense of what is right and the need to defend it.  Harry is the best of us, Severus, and it pains me that you are blinded to this.  I will admit that I hadn’t quite expected you to jump to such conclusions as you have, but I promise you that you are mistaken.”

Severus’ left eye twitched as he swallowed down the bile dredged up from the headmaster’s deifying the little deviant.  Though there was more than one rant he’d have loved to vomit all over the old man, he remained cognizant of the fact that Albus was very likely hoping for that very thing in order to change the subject and cleanse Severus of any less than foul feelings he may presently be harboring toward the vile little Potter spawn.  But Severus was the Slytherin here.  He was the spy.  He’d be damned if he was going to let Albus manipulate him.  Not in this.

So, he remained quiet until Albus had wound down, then spoke quite calmly despite the fact his words were sharp enough to cut stone.  “Albus, he is an eleven-year-old child, _not_ a God.  No one, and I mean _no one,_ reacts to the acute threat of death, broken bones, and heavily bleeding wounds with hardly a flinch unless he has faced such things repeatedly in the past.  _That_ statement ignores the fact that the individual of whom we are speaking is a small boy.”

Albus sighed, the sound somewhere between exasperation and annoyance, “Severus, you are projecting your own childhood onto young Harry.  Not everyone who is different must be so because of hardship.  Now, did the boy say that he is having problems at home?  Of any kind?”

“No,” Severus grated out through his clenched teeth.

“Then, I feel I must point out that this entire conversation is rather futile, my boy,” Albus chirped, recovering his good humor immediately.  “If Harry says that there is no problem, then there is no problem.  If he needs help, he will come to us.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose hard in some hope of staving off the massive headache Albus was presently seeding.  “Albus, how many times must I explain to you that that is _exactly_ what an abused child will _not do_?  Their abusers condition them to hide their pain and to lie in the face of suspicion-“

“Severus,” this time Albus sounded rather weary, his shoulders drooping with the weight of age he did not normally show, “my dear boy, it heartens me to see you champion those of our children who do need your help, but Harry is not one of them, I promise you.  Harry is in the very safest place he can be with his aunt and uncle.  The blood wards around their residence are unique, created specifically to harness the power of Lily’s sacrifice.  As long as he can call home the place where her blood resides, he is protected not only while he is within the house but always.  The protection is in his very blood and magic.  I know that you want to protect Harry, but you have to understand that he is safer with them than he could possibly be anywhere else.  Severus, I know that you, of all people, would not wish to squander the power of Lily’s sacrifice – that you wouldn’t want to put Harry at risk.”

Severus swallowed hard and felt his face settle into a stone mask as Dumbledore managed to play to Severus’ every weakness in one brief speech.

“Please,” Albus reiterated when Severus failed to immediately comment.  “Please, let go of this crusade, Severus.”

Severus let his eyes drift closed, admitting defeat, though his hopes hadn’t been all that high coming in here.  “Very well, Albus,” he said after a moment.  “I just hope you’re right,” he added because he was fairly sure Albus would be suspicious if he didn’t.  Of course, he wasn’t going to just give up on this, but from here on out, he suspected that it would be easier if Albus was unaware of his actions.

He left the office as quickly as he could and made his way toward the Great Hall for breakfast.  No, he couldn’t say he was terribly surprised by Albus’ response.  The old man never did want to believe that anyone could ever abuse their kin.  He preferred to think the best of everyone, even when he’d been given ample evidence to the contrary.  Severus wouldn’t be entirely surprised if Albus still hoped to bring the Dark Lord over to his way of thinking.

He snorted softly at that idea a moment before he stepped into the Great Hall, schooling his face into a mild scowl for all the little children.  It was barely after eight.  Not many of the little cretins had found their way to breakfast yet.  Potter had likely already been and gone as it was his custom to be in the library when it opened at eight each morning – weekends included.

The irritating little pest of a Gryffindor had not given him any reason to like him – little enough to even so much as tolerate him, actually – but that didn’t change the fact that he had found himself in the unwanted role of Harry Potter’s champion.  For that foolish Vow he’d made – only someone suicidal would swear an Unbreakable Vow to protect the spawn of a half-wit Gryffindor – and for Lily, Severus would not let Albus pretend that there was nothing wrong with Potter’s childhood.  And as much as he hated to admit it, for himself as well.  For that little boy he’d been once upon a time who’d been failed by every adult of his acquaintance time and time again, even long after he’d given up on them all.  In his ten years teaching, Severus had identified and championed nine gravely abused children and supported many more from difficult but not necessarily criminal situations.  Boy-Who-Lived or no, Harry Potter would be no different.

* * *

The weeks after the Troll Incident and Madam Pomfrey’s attempted intervention into his private life were, in a word, exhausting.  First, there was the fact that Snape never seemed to stop watching him.  Even when the man wasn’t looking at him, Harry could _feel_ the attention being directed at him from the acerbic professor.  He was pretty sure that it wasn’t his imagination, either, as it was apparently possible to gain such a sense through the study and practice of Magesense.

The man still treated Harry basically as he had always done.  Well, maybe he’d eased off very slightly on the personal attacks, but he still targeted Harry more often than anyone else in his class, hitting him with difficult, obscure questions randomly and Harry was fairly sure that he was more critical of Harry’s potions than the other Gryffindors.  The more time he spent around the professor the more perplexing Harry found him.  He’d determined that the man wasn’t on a level with the Dursleys, at all.  He wasn’t even necessarily a “bad” person.  He was strict and harsh and definitely biased toward his Slytherins and against the Gryffindors, but he honestly did seem to care about his students’ welfare.  It even seemed, against all odds, that the man was concerned about Harry’s home life.  He wasn’t getting the sense that Snape was pursuing the issue for malicious reasons, which could only mean that Snape was trying to help – however unwanted that help turned out to be.

Harry did his best to avoid the man when possible and stay completely in character whenever the professor was around.  The Head of Slytherin was far too observant for Harry’s comfort.

Of course, Snape wasn’t the only problem Harry had newly acquired.  No, there was also his bushy-haired shadow.  He’d expected, when he’d initiated the little bonding moment between himself and Granger, that things between them would change.  He’d planned to treat her rather like Neville.  Polite bordering on friendly depending on the circumstances, but he definitely hadn’t been expecting her to attach herself to him like a particularly stubborn barnacle.  Either she was latching onto one of the only people in the school who had reached out to her, or she was literally being influenced by the magic of the Life Debt between them.  Harry figured it was likely a combination of the two.

Regardless of the reasons, however, the result was exceedingly annoying.  Being from the same House, they already shared all of their classes and a common room, but now she sat right next to him whenever she could manage it.  She’d started getting up earlier and meeting him in the Great Hall as soon as breakfast started.  Worst of all, she’d taken to following him to the library.  Unlike Ron, who’d long since given up most of his attempts to be Harry’s “best mate”, Hermione was not afraid of the library.  On the contrary, she voluntarily spent as much time there as Harry did, and now she expected that they would spend that time studying _together_.

Problem was that Granger wasn’t dumb.  For all she lacked in common sense, she was actually intelligent when she applied herself.  If she caught him studying a fraction of the things he actually wanted to study, she’d figure out far more than he was comfortable with her knowing, and he doubted it would take very long.  That left him with the infuriating dilemma of studying nothing more than entirely mainstream type topics the vast majority of the time.  He still managed to get a few minutes here and there to find books that looked useful and smuggle them out of the library in the evening to read in the confines of his curtained bed, but he wasn’t accomplishing a fraction of the progress he’d been making before acquiring his stalker.  It had, in fact, become something of a challenge for himself to make it through each day without snapping at her.

This problem had led him to focusing most of the study he could scrounge for the evenings on Life Debts.  What he’d found was a solution to this one problem.

According to three different books in the library, Life Debts were one of the oldest, most sacred bonds in the wizarding world.  They were created through a collection of circumstances that must all exist together.  First, was an Action.  One magical being must perform a feat to prevent serious harm befalling another.  Typically, an action capable of forming a bond required a certain amount of personal risk on the part of the savior.  Second, was Recognition.  The Saved must recognize that he or she has been saved from serious harm.  This does not necessarily require conscious acknowledgement.  The individual may be in deep denial while his or her magic still recognizes the debt.  The final factor is Acceptance.  That is, the Savior must accept that a debt is owed him, at least on a subconscious level.

Depending on the severity of each part, Action, Recognition, and Acceptance, some may be very strong and others very weak and a debt may yet be formed.  In some cases, for example, the Saved may feel so strongly that he owes a debt that it may persist even if the Savior attempts to dismiss it.  In other cases, if the Action is great enough – such as the sacrifice of the Savior’s very life – Magic may enforce the debt onto the family or next of kin even though the Savior is no longer among the living.

Life Debts, Harry had discovered, were extremely powerful and highly respected Olde Magick.

Harry had only been in the wizarding world a few months and he’d already accrued _two_ such bonds.  Some of the documented demands that had been made in repayment of Life Debts were… frankly, incredible.  There were limitations, of course.  One could only demand as much as the indebted believed his or her life worth.  For instance, he couldn’t demand Neville do something that the boy would rather die than do.  It was a life debt and therefore only as valuable as the individual’s life.

Still…  Humans were instinctively selfish creatures with a deeply engrained survival instinct.  When it came right down to it, there were very few people willing to sacrifice their life for anything.  Not _risk_.  Plenty of people would _risk_ their lives, but to go into something _knowing_ that they would die…  Not many could do that.  Which meant that there wasn’t much a person could refuse as repayment of a life debt.

“Harry!”

He cringed slightly and sneered at the sound of the annoying Know-it-all’s voice.  Hermione sodding Granger.  The stupid bint thought she was Harry’s new best friend.  Between their little “bonding” session when he’d coaxed her out of the bathroom and then that whole… saving her life thing, she’d somehow decided that they were _besties_. 

Happily, he had a surefire defense against Granger now that he was sure he understood Life Debts.

He quickly wiped the sneer from his face when the big-toothed Ravenclaw-in-denial appeared around the library shelf, a smile splitting her face as her eyes fell on him.  “Harry, there you are!  I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“Well, if you were looking everywhere, I suppose it was only a matter of time,” Harry muttered quietly as he flipped shut the book he was reading and stood before she could sit.

She laughed quietly in response as he headed back the way she’d just come, motioning for her to follow.  “Where are we going?” she whispered as they wound through the maze-like aisles of the massive library that was definitely _not_ designed for ease of use but perhaps as a test of one’s endurance and conviction as it required both to navigate successfully.

“We need to talk,” was his only reply.

She didn’t say anything more.  She had enough respect for rules that she probably automatically assumed that he wouldn’t want to talk too much in the library lest he disturb the other students.  Of course, the only ones anywhere near his little study nook most of the time were those that sought the dark corner for snogging.

Once out of the library, it didn’t take long for Harry to find the dusty old storage room that he’d identified as remote enough for doing things that he didn’t want anyone to see.  He drew the girl to the far back corner where they were tucked behind so many pieces of cloth-covered old junk that no one looking into the room would have any hope of knowing they were there.

“What do you want to talk about in here?” Hermione asked cautiously, glancing around with mild trepidation.

Apparently, the girl had slightly more common sense than Harry had credited.  He held up a finger to request another moment of patience, then drew his wand and very carefully cast the spell that he’d just gotten down that morning.  The Ward of Silence was similar to the silencing charm, but instead of silencing a person or object, the Ward of Silence worked over a set area and was connected to him in such a way that he would feel it if anyone or anything breached the ward.  A standard Silencing Charm could keep sound from leaking out around a door or window but would do nothing for walls, nor did it account for the possibility of someone or something listening within the room.  It was quicker to cast, but not nearly as secure.

It took about fifteen seconds to cast the ward and once he felt it lock into place, he put away his wand and turned his full attention to Hermione.

Before she could ask any more questions, he spoke formally, “Hermione Granger, I hereby call upon the Life Debt between us.  In repayment for your life, I demand your complete confidence.  Henceforth, you shall never convey my secrets to anyone or anything, animate or inanimate, magical or mundane, intentionally or unintentionally.  Fulfill your debt or forfeit your life.  So mote it be.”

Harry felt the magic swirl between them and had to fight the urge to grin at the look of total shock apparent in Granger’s wide eyes and gaping mouth.  After a few seconds, her chin started to tremble and tears welled in her eyes.  He watched with fascination as devastation and betrayal blossomed in her eyes.  So, this is what it felt like to be on the other side of such a moment.  It felt better than he’d imagined.  There was a heady power in disappointing such high expectations as Granger had clearly formed with regard to their “friendship”.

With a small, stifled whimper, she turned and fled the room.

_Poor fool_.  Harry smiled slightly as he made his way much more slowly out of the room.  A small – _very_ small – part of him felt a little badly.  After all, he knew what it felt like to be in her place and it wasn’t good.  She’d trusted him to be her friend.  To save her life just because he was a _good person_ , and to offer the same any time it was needed without ever asking for anything in return.  She’d thought she was dealing with a _Gryffindor._  

Well, technically, she was.  But only because the Hat was a pushover.  Really, Granger should know better.  She was a clear Ravenclaw.  For whatever reason, she’d wanted to be a Gryffindor and the Hat had let her and now she was miserable because she didn’t actually get along with any of the Gryffindors.  The only one to tolerate her was Neville and that was because the boy was clearly a Hufflepuff misfit who would loyally support anyone who was even slightly nice to him – which actually ruled out most of Gryffindor House.

Oh, well.  Harry wasn’t worried about Granger.  He didn’t doubt that she’d soon be in the library researching everything that could be found regarding Life Debts.  She would quickly learn what he had.  In the wizarding world, honoring a Life Debt was considered a point of pride.  However enjoyable it may have been to watch her misunderstand, he truly hadn’t done anything unethical or in any way cruel.  He would let her figure that out and come crawling back.  In the meantime, he had research to do without her hanging all over him.  Not that it would matter if she did.  She didn’t have to accept his demand.  So long as she didn’t consider his confidentiality worth dying over, she was bound to keep his secrets from now on.

Harry was nearly out of the room when he felt something different.  Most of the stuff stored in the room had some feel of latent magic to it.  That wasn’t surprising.  This was the magical world.  Chairs were charmed for comfort, tables were enchanted against wear, rugs that actually ate any dirt that touched them, and beds imbued with Sweet Dreams charms – even the sheets covering the junk in the room were charmed against dust.  There was very little in the castle that didn’t bear some form of magic.

The tall object that had caused him to pause did not bear the simple charms and enchantments of the rest.  Indeed, the magic felt… deeper, was the word that came to mind.  Heavier, maybe.  More powerful wasn’t quite right, because the magic didn’t feel more powerful, just like there was more of it there.  Like many layers had been lain over it again and again and again.

He couldn’t identify any school of magic, he suspected because there were several woven together so seamlessly as to make it seem like something else entirely.  In his, admittedly inexpert, opinion he was looking at a work of art.

Curiously, he stepped forward and gently pulled down the dust cloth.  He stepped back as the sheet fell, taking in the sight of the mirror that had been revealed.  It was huge.  More than twice his height – not that his height was anything to brag about.  Across the top was an inscription.

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_

He stared at the letters curiously.  He wasn’t a linguist by any stretch of the imagination, but he had looked into the subject some in his research – mostly before Hogwarts.  That was the Latin alphabet, but he was virtually certain that it wasn’t any Latin-based language.  He mentally flipped through every such language he could think of, but he was fairly certain that it wasn’t in any of those.  He should have been able to pick up the letter combinations or make out some of the small words if it was, even with his extremely limited understanding of the languages.

Which meant…  If it wasn’t written in a different language, perhaps it was a code of some kind.  So what did he know about word codes.  Most of them required a key.  Considering the source, he assumed the key would be hidden somewhere on the mirror.  He looked over the frame curiously, the edges of the mirror, and walked around behind it.  Nothing.  The only inscription on the mirror seemed to be the strange words themselves.

What did that leave?  A word code that didn’t require a key?  A cipher?  Of course, it was possible that the key was elsewhere, or meant only to be known to those within a group who already knew it.  Or perhaps this was part of a set and the key was on the missing piece.

He shook his head and decided to assume, for the moment, that he had at hand everything necessary to solve the mystery.  Harry did so love puzzles.  He’d wasted a sad number of hours in his cupboard playing with word puzzles by the light leaking in through the grate in the door or the crack around it.

He tried mentally replacing some letters with others to make sense of the short words, trying to keep in mind that the answer might not be in English.  Then he tried just shifting the letters around, as in an anagram.

He frowned curiously as he began putting together some words and then blinked and rolled his eyes as it hit him.  Mirror writing, or rather a variation of it.  The clue was the mirror itself.

He shook his head, a little disappointed in himself for not thinking of that sooner. 

“I show not your face, but your heart’s desire,” he whispered to himself.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he felt the message was suitably non-alarming, and cautiously took a step forward to gaze into the mirror.

His eyes widened as he took in the scene.  His heart pounded and his breath grew shorter.  Damn, this thing wasn’t messing around. 

“Merlin,” he whispered in awe as he stared at the mirror that could apparently see into his soul.  What he saw in the mirror was… there were not words to describe how vastly the image appealed to him.  It was a combination of things he knew fully well that he wanted and things that, until this moment, he wouldn’t have guessed.  Now that he saw it, however, he was certain that he’d never forget.

He lost track of time as he stared into the reflection of his heart’s desire.  Happily, it was a Saturday, so he was unlikely to be missed for a time now that Granger was avoiding him.

He couldn’t take his eyes from the mirror’s surface.  It was utterly entrancing.  He was older, in the mirror – an adult.  He did wonder if he would grow up to look like that or if the mirror was projecting what he wished he would look like.  He was rather impressive.  Attractive, masculine, and menacing.  The sort of person that didn’t look like he ever could have been a victim, much less the victim of vile muggles.  In the foreground lay the corpses of his dear family, each mangled in such a way that only magic would have possibly allowed them to appreciate his efforts.  The vision incorporated a great deal of the ideas he’d entertained over the years. 

Then there was Dumbledore.  The headmaster was literally impaled on a bed of spikes, his head tilted back, blue eyes glazed with death.  His long white beard was stained with his blood and twisted around his neck as though he’d been choked with it.  His fingernails and toenails had been crudely removed – probably with a fishhook as that would be his first choice.  His genitalia had been reduced to an unrecognizable bloodied pulp.  His gaping mouth showed his teeth had been broken to bloody bits. 

Near the bodies were a collection of faceless figures, trembling in fear and prostrating themselves before him, and he knew that these were the enemies he might have had were he weaker.  Instead of daring to harm him, they cowered before him in hope of mercy.

None of that was surprising, though it was incredibly appealing.  No, what surprised him was that he was not alone above the others.  At his side, draped around him in a way that truly left no question as to the nature of their relationship, was a beautiful young man about the age of Harry in the image.  He was striking, though not as menacing as Harry.  More… arrogant and superior, though it was clear he wouldn’t be those things to Harry.  He looked at him with nothing short of adoration.

Though he found the sight appealing and the fact that his companion was male somewhat less than surprising, he wasn’t entirely sure that he liked the way his reflection was looking at the other man.  He couldn’t quite imagine opening himself enough to be with someone like that.  How much would he have to trust someone to…?  How could he ever trust them not to hurt him?  Letting himself care so much about anyone was just begging to be hurt.

He shuddered as he finally forced his eyes away from his greatest desires.  After a steadying breath, he drew his wand to carefully levitate the sheet back over the mirror.  He had no wish to look into it again.

Well, no.  That was a lie.  Part of him wanted to stare into it and never stop, but that part of him was stupid and he was ignoring it.  The parts of that scene that he knew he desired _would_ come true, but only if he worked hard for it and _made_ it happen.  Sitting here looking at the mirror was a surefire way to fail.  As to the rest…  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to work toward it or work toward ridding himself of the desire.

He _definitely_ wasn’t dwelling on the fact that his companion in the mirror had looked a very great deal like an adult Draco Malfoy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter.

* * *

**November 1991**

Harry yawned hard against his fist, wincing as his jaw creaked.  That had to be the fiftieth yawn so far this morning.  It was a little after five in the morning on a Saturday and Harry was following his familiar down the parseltongue passageways, half-listening to the incessant hissing about the Great Snake Man on the wall.  Harry’s brain wasn’t functioning well enough for him to fully decipher the snake’s meaning, but he had determined that Rhast had discovered something while he was exploring and it had excited him so much that he’d come to wake Harry immediately to show him.  He had been very insistent.  Harry hadn’t even gotten a shower, which had him slightly grumpy.  Ever since leaving the Dursleys, Harry had made a point to take a shower or bath at least once every day – just because it was such a novelty that he could.  He never wanted to reek of his own filth again.

“ _Rhast, at the risk of sounding like Dudley,_ are we there yet _?!”_ Harry couldn’t help but whine.

A wordless hiss of annoyance was followed swiftly by, “ _Do not imitate the Fat One, master.  You know how my venom pools when he is near.”_

Harry chuckled quietly, but didn’t complain any further.  They’d been moving downward steadily for most of the trip.  If the distance vertically was, in fact, equal to the distance in the rest of the castle – it wasn’t always in these passages – he was sure they’d be at the level of the dungeons by now.  “ _Are we at least getting close?”_ he inquired after a few more minutes.

“ _Here, master_ ,” Rhast hissed as he rounded a final corner and stopped with half his body still on this side.

Harry followed him around and his breath caught as he took in the sight.  There, in an alcove about a meter deep, was a large portrait of a man with long black hair and pointed goatee and pale gray eyes.  He was handsome, probably in his mid-twenties, and dressed in obviously fine though old-fashioned black robes with green and silver embroidery.  Perhaps most telling of all was the pendant he wore around his neck.  A silver locket set with emeralds arranged in the shape of an S.  But then, who else would have a portrait within the parseltongue passageways?

“ _Here is my master, Great Snake Man_ ,” Rhast introduced.

“ _I see_ ,” the portrait nodded, looking Harry over critically.

Harry stood up straighter, his spine stiffening beneath the judging stare.

“ _A Gryffindor_ ,” Slytherin, for it had to be, noted.

“ _I’m a major public figure for the ‘Light’_ ,” Harry defended stiffly, “ _I couldn’t let the Hat put me in Slytherin._ ”

A small smirk flitted onto the painted lips, “ _Ah, that makes more sense.  No heir of mine could actually_ belong _in Gryffindor_ ,” he sneered distastefully, “ _Particularly not one with such a familiar_.”

“ _Are all parselmouths descendants of yours?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Salazar answered unequivocally.  “ _It is a family trait engineered by my five times great grandfather and cannot be passed on but through blood relation, even blood bonding will not pass it.  You must be born with it and you must possess the ability to be able to pass it.  It does not skip generations_.”

Harry’s eyes widened at the idea that one of his parents had secretly been a parselmouth.  It had to have been James unless Lily was secretly a halfblood.  He pushed those thoughts from his mind for the moment.  He’d try to find some books on his genealogy later – or maybe there was a potion for it.  For now, he was more interested in meeting Salazar Slytherin, a man he’d come to greatly admire in the short time since he’d entered the Wizarding World.  “ _The rest of the Founders have portraits in the Great Hall.  Why don’t you?_ ”

“ _Because I have no desire to spend my time around the ignorant heathens and apostates accepted into the other Houses_ ,” he sneered with deep disgust at the mere thought.  So, apparently Slytherin was as prejudiced as the legends purported him to be.

“ _What, ah…  What do you mean by heathens and apostates?  Are you talking about muggleborns?_ ” Harry asked cautiously.

Slytherin’s mouth tightened unhappily, “ _Please, tell me you are not as ignorant as the last of my heirs to come through here_.”

“ _Um_ …”

Salazar rolled his eyes.  “ _At least you’ve found me in your first year.  I’ll have more time to get you properly educated.  Get inside_ ,” he demanded.

Harry was just about to ask where he was meant to go when the portrait swung open just like the one guarding Gryffindor Tower, revealing a short corridor leading into a larger room of some kind.

Rhast darted inside first, no doubt to make sure it was safe, because he was awesome like that.  Harry followed cautiously.  It took only moments inside to recognize a potions store room.  The impressive part was the mostly full shelves.  Either these were some _really_ impressive preservation wards, or this place was maintained by each heir that made it in here.  Or both, really.  Who knew how long it had been since the last heir had come through here.  The room was very large and had what he thought was probably a very impressive selection, though he didn’t know enough about potions yet to be completely sure.

On the other side of the room was a door that led into, not surprisingly, a potions laboratory.  It looked many times more impressive than the classroom they brewed in, but that wasn’t surprising.  Salazar was known for having been a potions master, so it made sense that he’d have a really nice lab.

Wandering beyond the lab, he found himself in a fairly long corridor.  There were three visible sets of double doors.

“ _This one smells of leather and paper, master,”_ Rhast offered of the nearest set.

Harry swallowed and reached for the serpentine handles.  He eased one door open and promptly pulled in a shocked breath that the sight of the vast library.  It was massive – probably half the size of the main library upstairs.

“ _My collection_.”

The voice startled Harry, though he recognized Salazar’s hiss.  He stepped forward slowly until he could clearly see the larger portrait hung on the wall above a fireplace. 

“Of course, I didn’t have nearly this many in my life.  I had no need to gather copies of those books already in the main library.  These books are rare, controversial, and generally ‘Dark’,” he sneered the word as though it had personally insulted him.  “Those of my descendants who have made it in here have all added to my collection.  This room contains many books that have been deliberately destroyed by the ‘Light’ heavy governments that have passed over the last thousand years.  This room holds the truth of our history that those in power have tried to erase from our memories.

“These were my quarters when I lived.  After my wife died, when I was preparing to leave Hogwarts for good, I sealed my rooms away from the rest of the castle to ensure that the blind fools I had once called friends did not disturb my collection, and to ensure that my children and their children and so on, would always have this at their disposal.

“There is a safeguard to ensure that none of my descendants get greedy,” he added with a small sneer that suggested at least some of them had been.  “To properly add anything to this library, there is a rune sequence that must be inscribed in it.  Once a book has been added, however, it cannot be removed from here.  Ever.  Not even by the one who added it.  You can, of course, copy anything that you wish.  The runes that make the book a part of this library also happen to countermand the protection charms that prevent the copying of books.  Despite the passage of a thousand years, I have yet to see any literary protection charms that can survive the process.  I would, however, advise caution in this.  If you are caught with books that were banned and believed wiped out centuries ago, there will be questions.  Questions that you will find yourself quite unable to answer regardless of your personal inclinations on the subject.”

Harry nodded, doing his best to commit all of this to memory.

“Now, how many languages do you speak?” Salazar demanded.

“Uh… English and Parseltongue,” Harry admitted somewhat sheepishly.

Salazar sighed despondently for a moment before continuing in an even firmer voice, “We will correct that.  Latin is absolutely vital to any magus.  It was our language millennia before some fool shared it with the Forsaken.  Old English, as it is called now, should be simple enough for you to pick up.  Those will do to begin, and I expect you to be fluent in both by the end of the year.”

Harry frowned at the demands.  He really didn’t like anyone telling him what he was going to do.  He’d been looking after himself as long as he could remember, and he was bloody good at it.  He had to consider the fact that this was Salazar Slytherin, however, a man he had no reason to less than respect.  There was also the fact that he positively ached to learn _everything_ about _everything_ , and Salazar was very clearly offering to teach him.  For the chance to have Slytherin himself as his tutor and this library as a resource…  Well, he’d do a lot worse than suck up his pride.

So, he only nodded to the portrait with a respectful, “Yes, sir.”

Salazar smirked at him as though he knew exactly what Harry was thinking.  “Good.  Now have a seat.  I’m going to give you your first uncensored history lesson.  There’s no need to take notes today, but in the future I expect you to come down here prepared for it.  Once you’ve learned the basics, I’ll set you loose on the library, though there isn’t much of it that will do you a lot of good until you’ve at least learned Latin.  Until a few centuries ago it was the official first language of Wizarding Britain.”

Harry took a seat in one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs behind the large study table, which was situated to face the portrait in a way that made Harry suspect that this was often used as a classroom in which the portrait could teach his heirs.

“The story that I tell you today will be the abridged version.  I want you to understand the point without spending hours on the details, so you will listen without interrupting and we will go over your questions after.  Also, remember that everything I tell you can be verified by the books in this library, some of which are many thousands of years old.

“Now, this story begins 20,000 years ago.  At this time, there was no such thing as what you know to be ‘muggles’.  Humans were born of Magick.  We were her most blessed children, honored above all her other creations with the sharpest intellect and most complete grasp of her gift.  For more than five hundred years, humans flourished.  We did not, of course, all see eye to eye.  It is the way of humanity to covet and to quarrel.  Over time, we divided, and built two cities.  One city was built in a massive valley, around a lake, and it was called Kreshal.  Another city was built in the plains, along a river, and it was called Muggal.

“For hundreds of years, the cities coexisted more or less peacefully.  And then, one day, it happened.  No one knew exactly what happened, but one day, Muggal just… collapsed.  All of the magic in the city failed at the same time.  All of the magi of the city lost their magic.  The city, having been constructed with more magic than anything, could not be sustained in the absence of their enchantments.  The people of Muggal – those that survived the collapse – became the first humans without magic.”

Harry flinched when Rhast coiled around his body and chair twice before settling his head on Harry’s shoulder where he could observe the painting.  The snake had wandered away almost immediately after they’d entered the room, doubtlessly to continue exploring.  Harry had been so captivated by Salazar’s story that he’d not been paying any attention to his familiar’s approach.  Either Rhast was exercising rare tact or he’d heard Salazar say that he didn’t want to be interrupted because he said nothing as he settled himself.

Salazar’s eyes followed the snake, but he didn’t let it interrupt the flow of his story.  “The first thing the Muggals did was to travel to Kreshal and beg for aid in determining what had happened to them and how to fix it.

“They were not… well-received.  The people of Kreshal were terrified that they, themselves, could be next.  The Muggals were ordered to make their camp far from Kreshal’s gates.  The magi did offer food and potions to the Muggals, who you must understand were nearly helpless, having never even begun to imagine how to survive without their magic.  The magi refused to get too close to them or use their magic on them.  While the city of Kreshal almost unanimously went into a state of fervent prayer in hopes of avoiding the Muggals’ fate, they also searched for an answer as to what had happened, how, and why.

“The answer came from the diviners – those who could commune with Magick herself.  It had a much different connotation then than it does today, sadly.  Though they did not know precisely what had happened, they did learn that the Muggals had displeased Magick very greatly and for that they were punished.  It is believed that they had tried to enslave Magick herself, though I have been unable to find anything confirming it.

“And so the Muggals were banished from the vicinity of Kreshal and forced to muddle their way through learning to live without magic on their own.  Roughly eighty percent of them perished within the first year, but the remainder persevered and learned to live without magic.  They learned, but they did not cease to covet what they’d lost.  While the majority of the survivors had resigned themselves to their lot in life within a few generations, there was a sect that did not.  They scavenged everything that they could from Muggal and taught their children about what they had lost.  They groomed them to be fanatics.

“Over time, it is suggested that the Muggals tried many times to regain their magic.  Eventually, about ten generations after they were forsaken, they were partially successful in one of their attempts.  There was a magus that helped them.  It is believed that he was kidnapped as a baby and brainwashed to their heathen dogma.  

“They conducted a ritual using a powerful convergence of Ley Lines and an incredibly intricate array of runes.  The ritual required the sacrifice of thirteen magical infants, stolen from their cribs.  Over the course of the ritual, the infants were slaughtered, their blood poured directly from their bodies over thirteen Muggal women, who were even then fertilized by thirteen Muggal men.  Nine months later, in the course of another ritual, the infants were cut from their mother’s wombs.  The mothers were the sacrifices the powered that ritual.

“Those infants were the first thirteen ‘muggleborns’ to exist.  When the Magi discovered what had happened, they were enraged.  They slaughtered every member of the cult they could find, but the infants were hidden too well and were never found.  It is believed that all muggleborns today are in some way descendant of those first thirteen.  After that, the magi did everything in their power to erase all evidence of Muggal and all memory of magic that the Forsaken yet possessed, including the memories of stories passed down through generations.  Eventually, of course, the magi would move freely among the Forsaken again, but the Muggals themselves never remembered that they had once been one people.

“Sadly, the cult was never entirely wiped out, though they did learn to be much more careful – to hide from the magi.  They have had many names throughout history, their most recent to my knowledge, the Illuminati in the late eighteenth century.  Tom, my last heir to come down here, believed that this cult was becoming a very real threat to the magical world.  He believed the Forsaken were becoming advanced enough in their technology that a cult of them intent on our destruction could actually prove a danger to us.  After some of the books he installed here in the library, I must say that I am beginning to fear the same.

“That is why you will learn our true history.  While our Light dominated government is content to pretend no danger exists, there remains a group of Muggals who have not forgotten our history and are still seeking to destroy us.  We who have the power they covet.”

When Salazar did not continue, but stared at Harry patiently, he figured it was time for him to ask questions.  “It’s horrible the way the muggleborn began,” Harry agreed, “but why do you hate their descendants so much?”

Salazar smirked humorlessly, “Oh, that is the truly horrific part, my young heir.  You see, the Muggals’ ritual did not simply return magic to them.  That is impossible.  The Forsaken cannot develop their own magic.  They stole ours.”  He paused for a moment, his face grave, letting that statement sink in.  “For every heathen born from the loins of the Forsaken, one of our children are born with an empty magical core.”

Harry’s mouth fell open as the tragedy of that fact sunk in.  Squibs.  For every muggleborn, there was a squib born.  He could feel the wrongness of it right through his bones.  Magical people born without access to their magic because some muggle child had gotten it.  A muggle child who would have been perfectly content going through their lives completely ignorant of magic.  Instead, a magical child was born into the magical world without it.  Unable to ever fit into his own world.

“In the second half of my life, I did some research into recovering the magic from a muggleborn in order to restore the magical core of a squib,” Salazar went on after a long pause to allow Harry to appreciate the situation.  “I was never successful, but I still believe it to be possible.”

“…but,” Harry frowned after a moment of silence.  “If you hated muggleborns so much, how come you built this school where they’d be taught?”

Salazar sneered and looked away as though it wasn’t a topic he liked.  “I didn’t hate them,” he admitted reluctantly.  “I was raised in an old Dark family.  I grew up knowing the truth about the origin of the heathens, but my family did not hate them.  We hated how they came about, but did not blame the children descended from that ancient ritual.  That rosy disposition lasted until my wife birthed my second son a squib.  My beautiful, brilliant, perfect child should have grown into a powerful wizard.  _But he didn’t._   My son was deprived of magic while some unworthy Forsaken spawn was out there growing up with my boy’s magic.  Some _heathen animal_ would grow into the powerful wizard that my son should have been.  He’d probably attend Hogwarts, where we would teach him to use the magic he _stole from my son_ so that he could come into adulthood and live a life as though he were as good as us.  As though he was _better_ than my son.”

Harry watched the man rant, his gray eyes burning red in his fury.  It was easy to see the madness in him at the moment.  When he became very angry, he kept switching between English and Parseltongue as though he didn’t even notice what he was doing.  Then he paused, took a breath, and turned very, very cold.

“I refused to see it happen.  When the others proved unable to appreciate my perspective – _none of_ their _children were born without their magic!_ – I left.  My Callea had died by then, but her sister looked after my children.  I left Hogwarts, and I tracked down every heathen child within two years of my son’s age and I slaughtered them.  They didn’t deserve to live with the gifts that didn’t belong to them.”

Harry blinked and stared, wide-eyed at his ancestor.  He’d tracked down and killed who knew how many toddlers and infants in cold blood.  He really wasn’t sure how to feel about that.  Part of him sympathized with the man, and he honestly couldn’t summon that much emotion over the dead muggleborn kids.  He didn’t see the point in killing for its own sake, but that wasn’t what Salazar was talking about.  Harry never really planned on having kids of his own, but if he did…  If his kid – his _family_ – was hurt like that…  Harry could honestly see himself doing the same thing.

“Have I frightened you, child?” Salazar inquired, and Harry looked up to see the portrait looking entirely composed and calm once again.

Harry shook his head thoughtfully.  “No.  I was just thinking that I’d have probably done the same,” he admitted.  It was amazingly liberating to be able to say something like that aloud to someone.  Well, someone besides Rhast, who really didn’t understand why anyone might have a problem with something of that sort.

A rather malicious smile curled the portrait’s lips.  “What is your name, child?”

“Harry Potter.”

* * *

Lord Voldemort watched through the eyes of his host as Harry Potter appeared right through what looked like a solid stone wall.  With a brief, discreet glance around that failed to locate Quirrell’s disillusioned form, the boy turned and strode smoothly away toward the Great Hall, where breakfast would be served in a few minutes.

Twice before Voldemort had caught Potter in a place that highly suggested he’d just stepped out of one of the Parseltongue passageways, but this was the first time he was certain of it.  It seemed incredible, but there was no way to doubt what he had just seen.  Harry Potter was a Parselmouth.  Not only that, but he’d already discovered and begun to use the passageways.  The only way that was possible was if the boy had a pet snake.  No other way could he have divined their locations this quickly and still managed to be in contention for the top score in every class.

It must have been a tiny thing for it to have avoided notice.  Well, tiny or…

But, no.  Surely, not.  There was no way that _Potter_ of all people…

Except that, of course, there was.  Of course.  If Potter was a Parselmouth…  But why on Earth was he a Gryffindor, then?

This would certainly bear more investigation, he was certain, but not just yet.  He didn’t have the time to let himself get distracted.  He had to focus on the Stone first.  Later, after he’d secured it, then he could learn more about the boy who “vanquished” him.

Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t have to be enemies.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

**November 1991**

Hermione shifted in her seat for the umpteenth time, trying to focus on her book – a terribly interesting charms reference – and pretend that she wasn’t sneaking looks at Harry over it ever few seconds.  It wasn’t easy.  She’d never really had a crush on a boy before, but then, no boy had ever saved her life before, either.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting of “The Harry Potter” after reading about him, but it was probably something similar to muggle tween celebrities.  Beautiful and untouchable and somehow perfect in every way – or at least with the appearance of such.  And, she had to admit, at first glance, Harry was all of that and more.  He was completely cute and brilliant and so nice and basically perfect.  It hadn’t really surprised her when they hadn’t gotten along in the beginning.  The cute, popular boys had never liked her before.

And then he’d come and found her when she’d been in the bathroom crying because of that foul oaf Ronald, and he’d been so very sweet.  She’d seen a side of him that she never had before.  She wasn’t sure if anyone at Hogwarts had seen that side of him.  So real and _human_.  That’s when she’d realized that he wasn’t perfect and that he needed someone to see him for who he was and not the celebrity.

And… that was when she’d really fallen in love with him.

The fact that he’d then gone and been all heroic and saved her life immediately afterward had just ensured that she was a goner for life.

Of course, she’d learned a lot more about Harry Potter since Halloween.  Since she’d been spending time with him alone in the library, she’d found that he wasn’t always as warm and nice as he appeared.  In fact, he could be downright cold sometimes.  He got this look in his eye when he was annoyed with her…  It was like…  It made her feel rather like a fly about to be swatted – small and helpless and a little bit scared.  It also made her proud, in an irrational way.  Proud that she could see that side of him that she was sure no one else did.

Then there was the Life Debt between them.  She still blushed to remember how horrifically she’d blundered that.  She hadn’t read about Life Debts before, so she hadn’t realized exactly what it meant.  When he’d invoked the debt, she’d stupidly thought that it meant he was just using her or something.  It had happened to her before.  A popular boy being nice to her just to get her help with homework or something like that.  That, of course, was ludicrous because the last thing Harry needed was her help academically.  He’d just seemed so cold when he said it, and it had sounded like… like he really didn’t want her around.

But then she’d read about Life Debts and she’d realized that wizards considered it an honor to fulfill a Life Debt.  And she’d _really_ thought about it and figured out that Harry wouldn’t have enforced that particular demand if he’d truly been quit of her.  One doesn’t demand that another keep his secrets unless he intends for her to _learn_ his secrets.  And, yes, he wasn’t exactly spilling his guts at the first opportunity, but he obviously expected her to be around him enough to figure them out.

As soon as she’d realized her blunder, she’d tracked him down and apologized profusely for the misunderstanding.  He’d been gracious enough about it that she was sure he’d expected her to do just what she’d done.  If possible, it was even more embarrassing to realize that she was so predictable to a boy that remained a mystery to her.

She wondered what he must think of her.  Was she just some annoying bookworm who didn’t know how to take a hint and leave him alone?  Did he appreciate being able to study in silence without being alone as much as she did?  Was there any chance at all that he could ever like her as more than a friend?

She self-consciously shoved part of her bushy hair behind her shoulder.  Probably not, but if Harry was anything, it was unconventional.  If anyone could see passed her bossy, bookworm nature and see something in her worth liking, surely it would be him?

“This makes no sense!” Harry snapped suddenly, startling her badly.  His voice was pitched to a whispered hiss with respect to the fact that they were in the library, but his annoyance was nonetheless quite clear.  “I have found no less than three completely dissenting explanations on the difference between Light and Dark magic.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, setting down her own book to focus on him completely.  He didn’t talk to her too often while they were alone in the library, but she absolutely loved it when he did.  He was completely brilliant, but he didn’t really debate academics in general.  Not that there were a lot of people in the Gryffindor Common Room looking to debate academics.  She loved to listen to the way his mind worked and even play Devil’s Advocate, even though he always won their debates.

“ _This_ book,” Harry explain, giving an irreverent shove to the offending text, “asserts that Dark magic is defined as any magic created for the explicit purpose of doing harm to a human being – note that it rather hypocritically ignores all those spells that may have been created for the explicit purpose of doing harm to goblins, house-elves, veela, centaurs, or any other magical creature that is every bit as sentient as humanity.  _This_ book, on the other hand,” he stabbed a finger into another of the open books in front of him, “is quite clear on the fact that Dark magic is defined as any magic that requires negative emotions, such as anger or hatred to cast, whereas any spell that requires positive emotions, such as happiness or love is considered Light magic.  Those that do not require an emotional component are labeled as Neutral magic, which is something that most of these books don’t even acknowledge as existing.

“Finally, _this_ book,” he waved dismissively at the one he’d just grown too frustrated to continue reading, “makes no acknowledgement of any such thing as Light magic, but insists that Dark magic is a perversion of magic that poisons or sometimes even fractures the human soul to use and invariably drives the user insane over time.

“Furthermore, I have found _lists_ of Dark Lords and Dark Wizards known to exist over time.  There are even some speaking about famous Light Wizards, however, in all of my searching, I could discover nothing that actually explained how they are differentiated except perhaps by their deeds.  From all of this, I can only conclude that no one knows for certain what Dark Magic is or perhaps that it is merely something made up to classify spells that the Ministry deems inappropriate.  Considering how many records there are of perfectly sane Dark Wizards, I find it exceedingly difficult to credit the theory that it drives people insane.  I suspect that to be propaganda hatched by “Light” wizards.  Given how much I’ve heard about insane wizards and witches that are _not_ tied to Dark magic, I suspect that the wizarding world needs to devote a lot more resources to psychiatry, but that’s another issue entirely.

“Dark, as applied to a witch or wizard, seems to be intended to mean those that use Dark magic, but is much more accurately termed to apply to any criminal regardless of the magic that they use.  It is also used by the public to label anyone suspected of doing ‘Dark’ magic or participating in criminal activities.  Entire family lines tend to be stuck with the label, actually.

“All I can conclude is that Dark Magic is a manmade label that has virtually nothing to do with the kind of magic one uses and a lot to do with the political climate, one’s personal leanings, and current Ministerial dictates.”

She could only stare at him in more than a little bit of wonder as he concluded that rant.  Had he really just ripped apart the greatest socio-political dividing force in the wizarding world?  Was it possible that it was all actually built on a platform of prejudice and manipulation?

Before she could even begin to put together any sort of rebuttal, he stood and walked away, his curt, “see you later,” making it clear that she wasn’t meant to follow.

With a disappointed sigh at his departure, she pushed aside her own book and eagerly collected those he had left behind.  She had to read this for herself and figure out how much truth was behind his conclusion.  Of course, she expected it to be considerable.  Despite being a boy of strong convictions, she’d also discovered that Harry was not prone to being blinded by his own beliefs and desires.  No, he tended to be extremely methodical when it came to research.  He wanted to explore every available opinion and slant on an issue and then find the truth.  And if that truth went against what he wished to be true, he might do a little more research, but she’d never seen him deny something obvious because he wished that it wasn’t.

With that in mind, she had a pretty good idea of what she was going to find, but she wanted to read it for herself anyway.

* * *

“Good morning, Lord Slytherin,” Harry greeted the portrait just a few minutes after leaving Hermione in the library.  If there was one place he could get an answer to his question, Salazar’s library would be the place.

“Greetings, young Heir,” Salazar responded in kind.  He’d been very specific with Harry about proper ways to address people.  Harry couldn’t really use that too much because it wouldn’t fit at all with his Boy-Who-Lived persona.  He was muggle-raised, after all.  He was known to be intelligent and studious, but he was also a Gryffindor.  He’d never heard anyone in Gryffindor using proper etiquette and addressing people by proper titles.  At least not here in school.  Salazar, however, was likely to not let him in if he didn’t address him as he deserved.

Salazar said nothing more, simply swinging open to grant him entrance.  One thing Harry had learned since he’d started coming here was that the way he’d just entered had been a secret rear entrance when the rooms were created, which is why he entered into a store room.  The original entrance was beyond the other side of the library, passed the drawing room and formal parlor.  Now, it was nothing more than a blank stretch of wall.

Once he got into the library, Harry sat down at the table facing the portrait and pulled over a roll of parchment and self-inking quill that he’d situated there for just this purpose. 

“You look like you have a question,” Salazar’s portrait smirked down at him.

Harry nodded, “Is there a difference between Light and Dark magic?  Or, better, is there even such a thing as Light and Dark magic?”

Salazar’s smirk turned into an approving smile.  “Very good, my heir.  Very good.  The answer is no.  Light and Dark magic as they are understood today are complete fabrications.  To my knowledge, the myth first appeared around 8,000 years ago when Daeal Sita, Lady of House Sita failed in her revolution and was denounced as the first Dark Lady.  ‘Dark’, at that time, was defined as any who dared to stand against the Magick Blessed king of the land.  Of course, later evidence strongly suggests that Magick herself had nothing to do with the monarch of that land, when an assassination succeeded in leading to a revolution nearly two centuries later.

“Nevertheless, the designation of ‘Dark’ was adopted rather quickly by other lands, and the definitions varied, but in general focused on the theme of ‘Dark’ being anything that was opposed to the present governmental body.  Within half a millennium, ‘Dark’ had become a commonly accepted term throughout most of Europe and Africa and even into parts of Asia.

“It was around 6,000 years ago that the notion of ‘Dark magic’ really took off.  It was at the culmination of a war, not surprisingly.  Whilst the winners were rewriting their recent history to their liking, they included in this a list of spells and rituals created by their enemies – magic that had been used against them.  They declared it ‘Dark’ and banned its use or even a record of how it was done.  The winners of that war were the liberals of their culture.  The conservatives, the traditionalists, were the losers and thus the ‘bad guys’.  It is that war, fought in central Europe, that was the beginning of the modern concept of ‘Light’ as the liberals and ‘Dark’ as the conservatives. 

“There were changes in various areas as further wars were fought over the following millennia, but the concept persisted in the world of my youth and still survives today in most of the magical world.  As I understand it, the ICW nations, which encompass the majority of the magical world, are weighted close to seventy percent in favor of the ‘Light’.  Our traditions are dying, our history is being forgotten, and the Forsaken are not only growing more powerful, but if I understand correctly, they now outnumber us around 700 to 1.”

“You sound like you want me to do something about it,” Harry couldn’t help but note despite the fact that he knew Salazar hated to be interrupted.

“Of course, I do,” Salazar snapped.  “Magical society has existed for 20,000 years, and those Magick forsaken animals could potentially wipe us out.  Even if they do not, we are in very real danger of all of our history and culture being subsumed beneath the heathen doctrine of the Forsaken as the liberal fools try to mold us in the image of those Magick will not touch and call it _progress_.”

The man looked somewhat insane again, Harry noted dispassionately.  “I understand all of that,” Harry nodded, because he really did.  “I’m just not certain that I’m the man for the job.  You want me to be a Dark Lord, to lead a revolution against the liberals in control of Britain, and then probably the ICW.  While I admit that I haven’t studied the subject in great detail yet, I am aware of what happened to the last two Dark Lords in Europe.  One is, to this day, rotting in a prison of his own making and the other was killed in the process of trying to murder _me_ , as a baby.  Sorry, but I’m not all that eager to get in line to be next.”

Salazar’s anger calmed somewhere during that and he looked visibly startled by the end.  “Tom is dead?  He tried to kill you?”

“Um…” Harry frowned, caught off guard.  “Tom, as in your last heir to come down here?  Are you telling me that Tom became Voldemort?”

Salazar nodded distractedly.  “Yes, he fancied that name for himself.  I don’t begrudge him that.  It would be difficult to take seriously a Dark Lord Tom or a Dark Lord Riddle…  He’s dead, though?”

Harry shrugged, “Some say that he is.  Others say that he’ll be back.  I have no idea.”

“Hm,” Salazar hummed thoughtfully, “I can’t be sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d survived.  He was quite assiduous in his quest for immortality.  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite so frightened of death.”

Harry’s brow rose as he thought about that.  Voldemort was afraid of death – paranoid, even.  That was a strange thought.  Everyone was afraid of Voldemort, but he’d never heard of Voldemort being afraid of anything, before.  Well, no, that wasn’t true.  People said that he feared Dumbledore.  It made Harry hate the old man more, for some reason.  He supposed he was relating to the former Dark Lord on some level now that he realized the man had been an heir of Slytherin as well.

It was such a human thing to fear, death.  It wasn’t a fear that Harry shared.  He’d wished for death too many times to truly fear it, though he had no desire for it anymore.  And Rhast never would have let him try to greet death sooner than necessary.

“It’s no wonder your name has such a bad reputation,” Harry snorted after a long moment of silence.  “You incite all of your heirs to sedition.”

“Yes, well,” Salazar said sourly, “being dead myself, there is little more that I can do to preserve my world than to educate my heirs and… encourage them to take the action I cannot.”

“Well, I’ll keep it in mind,” Harry promised, “but I don’t think I’m all that interested in being a Dark Lord.”  The image from the mirror flashed through his mind and he hastily banished it.  That happened at least once a day – sometimes more.  Especially when he was around Draco or Dumbledore.  He wasn’t sure that it would ever stop happening.  Not until he’d either achieved his desires or truly changed them.  The enchantment of that mirror was insidious and unrelenting even though he had looked into it only once.

No, he could achieve his desires without becoming a Dark Lord.  Of course, he’d have to be careful to avoid getting caught torturing and murdering people to death if he planned to return to polite society afterward, but he could do it if he planned it properly.  And he could see his potential enemies tremble in fear of him without being known as a Dark Lord.  There were more ways to threaten people than with physical pain and death, after all.  With enough political and fiscal power he could destroy his enemies entirely within the realm of legality.  Well, planted evidence or the like may sometimes be necessary, but it would all _seem_ legal.

The fact that Salazar didn’t look the slightest bit dissuaded by his decision left him wary.  Doubtless, the portrait figured he still had six and a half years to change his mind.  Harry planned to stick to his guns though.  He was not going to die young or spend more than half of his life in some prison in an attempt to bring satisfaction to the underdogs of wizarding society – the conservatives, as Salazar called them.

Hopefully Voldemort was still alive.  He could champion The Cause and Harry could continue to worry about just himself and Rhast.  With luck, Voldemort wouldn’t take the incident between them when Harry was a baby too personally.  It was hardly Harry’s fault that the world decided to deify him for something completely outside his control.  Maybe if he made that stance public Voldemort would leave him alone.

* * *

 

**December 1991**

Harry tapped an almost inaudible rhythm against the edge of the table with one hand, his other holding a book that he’d been not-reading for over an hour.  Rather than spending his early mornings exploring the castle as he’d done the first few months here, Harry now spent the time studying with Salazar.  Though, officially, he was learning Latin, Salazar always made sure to include some conversation about the Heathens (muggleborns), Apostates (halfbloods), and Liberal Fools (Light purebloods).  He was a man of extremely strong convictions and he never missed an opportunity to foist those convictions on his heir.

Though Harry maintained that he had no interest in being a Dark Lord, and he knew that he found the Light purebloods and halfbloods rather distasteful for their willingness to abandon their own culture, he was less certain with regard to muggleborns.  Though he understood Salazar’s feelings on the matter as well as was possible given the fact that he had no family at all, much less children, he wasn’t sure that he shared those feelings.  Oh, he knew himself well enough that he suspected he was capable of following Salazar’s bloody example if he suffered such a tragedy later in life as Salazar had with his second son.  That didn’t mean that he was totally ready to vilify all muggleborns though.  It really wasn’t their fault for being born as they were.  It wasn’t their fault that the Light dominated government allowed them to grow up ignorant and didn’t even offer proper instruction on wizarding culture when they finally did enter the wizarding world.

Hell, Harry himself was in the same situation.  Though his magic hadn’t been stolen, he’d been raised in ignorance just as they, and he credited himself with no fault for the fact that he entered the magical world ignorant.  That could be blamed entirely on the Ministry’s current policies regarding muggleborns.  Well, that and his aunt’s pathological aversion to magic.

No, he couldn’t quite see how he could blame the muggleborns.  He couldn’t even fully blame those like Dean Thomas who entered the wizarding world and didn’t even try to learn anything about his new world that wasn’t required for his classes.  It really should be required for them to learn.  There should be a wizarding culture class that was required for muggle-raised students, including the halfbloods that grew up mostly in the muggle world.

He blamed the government and Dumbledore, the Liberal Fools, as it were, for the fact that wizarding culture was being allowed to die.  As to the muggleborn situation with regard to squibs…  Well, that he did plan to study when he was older and had a better foundation in the wizarding world and magical theory.  Surely, if it was possible to create the muggleborns through a magical ritual, it must be possible to reverse it.  Salazar had said that only a single wizard was involved in the ritual, though there were a lot of human sacrifices.  Still, Harry wouldn’t necessarily be against using human sacrifice.  It’s not like it was that difficult to find muggles who would be better off dead.  He’d grown up with three shining examples.  If the sacrifices were required to be babies, that might give him pause, but he’d worry about that if it came to it.

Hermione could be annoying, but she was tolerable.  The more time she spent around him, the more tolerable she became, and he didn’t think he was just getting used to her.  She seemed to be using that perfectly capable brain of hers to figure out what irritated him and then avoid doing it.  Dean Thomas was absolutely intolerable, but Harry figured that had more to do with his personality than his being a muggleborn.  Seamus was a halfblood and he was just as annoying.  Ron was a pureblood and he was worse than either of them.  Terry Boot, from Ravenclaw, was a muggleborn and he seemed no more annoying than his halfblood and pureblood classmates.  Justin Finch-Fletchy and Wayne Hopkins from Hufflepuff were also just as tolerable as their other yearmates.

He did feel a slight twinge of pity for the poor squib that he knew existed for each and every one of the muggleborns, but hating the muggleborns for it didn’t seem likely to help anyone.

So, he continued to put up with Hermione and treat her as he had been since cashing in his Life Debt.  When they were alone in the library he mostly ignored her, but it was sometimes kind of nice to have someone to talk to if an idea came to him.  She was good at arguing and seemed to be eager to take up an opposing view to anything he said more for the sake of the argument than because she actually disagreed, he thought.  It was… well, ‘fun’ certainly wasn’t the right word.  If he went ahead and called their arguments fun, next thing he’d be calling her a ‘friend’.  He mentally shuddered at the thought. 

In his mind, a friend was someone he trusted completely and with whom he could share anything.  Rhast was his friend.  Athena might be his friend.  Salazar had potential.  Admittedly, he trusted all of them because the odds of being betrayed by any of them were exceedingly slim.  Rhast was his familiar and basically _couldn’t_ betray him.  Athena was a post owl who took her responsibilities very seriously, and the worst she could do anyway is deliver his mail to the wrong person, which she was quite literally bred not to do.  Salazar was obscenely loyal to his heirs from what Harry could tell.  The only one Salazar could betray him to was Voldemort, and with any luck at all, they wouldn’t be enemies, so that wouldn’t be too bad.  He knew without a doubt that the man would never turn him in to Dumbledore or the Ministry, at least.

Harry had absolutely _no_ plans to make any friends among the humans in Hogwarts.  Acquaintances, sure.  Allies, certainly.  Enemies, inevitably.  Friends, though?  Definitely not.  He couldn’t even begin to imagine having that much trust in anyone.

The image of an adult Draco from the mirror flashed through his mind but he immediately pushed it away.  He was getting good at that.

“It’s nearly curfew,” Hermione said quietly, jarring him from his thoughts.

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that it was already a quarter to nine.  They’d just have time to replace the books they weren’t taking out and hurry back to the tower.  He’d already been caught out after curfew once by Filch and twice by Snape and he had no desire to serve any more detentions.  And losing House Points was bad for his image, particularly within his House, so he wanted to avoid that, even if he saw less than no value in winning the House Cup.  Bragging rights?  That’s what they were competing for?  Well, perhaps he’d have felt differently if he felt like he actually belonged in his House, but he had his doubts. 

With a nod to Hermione, he started closing his books, making a note of those he wished to look at again.  He still refused to check out any book that he wasn’t comfortable with Dumbledore knowing that he was reading.  Hermione had seen him smuggle books out before and she’d looked so righteously appalled at the very idea that he’d nearly laughed at her.  Instead, he’d just smirked and told her that it was a secret.  She’d been forced to fume in silence.  He hadn’t bothered to explain to her why he was doing it, just smirking and ignoring the question when she asked.  She hadn’t brought it up a second time despite the fact that he could see her fighting down the urge every single time he did it.

He wasn’t taking out any books tonight.  He had some homework to work on tonight and early tomorrow morning he was planning on broaching the subject of occlumency with Salazar.  If anyone could teach him, it would be Slytherin, and it would save him the trouble of looking for books in the restricted section.  He was still trying to figure out how to get in there and read books without being detected, of course, because that would just be good to know.  Besides, the skills he was picking up to do it would be applicable in other instances, as well, he was sure.

Hermione left the library a few steps ahead of him and he immediately heard her say, “Oh, hi, Neville!  Harry and I were just finishing up in the library.  What are you doing down here this late?”

Harry joined her in the corridor to find her talking to a damp and exhausted-looking Neville Longbottom.  “Detention?” he deduced before Neville could respond to Hermione.

The boy nodded with a big sigh, “Filch.  He had me scrubbing the trophy room.  I don’t think my hands have ever hurt this much.”

Harry bit back a smirk.  Manual labor must be a horrific punishment for a rich kid like him.  Not that Harry wasn’t rich, but he hadn’t been raised that way.  Harry actually did know what it was like to work until his fingers bled and then work some more, and Neville did not look anywhere close to that.  Still, smiling at the misfortune of others was bad form – even when said misfortune was funny.

“I can’t believe that Professor Snape gave you a detention just because you failed to brew that silly potion,” Hermione sympathized.  She had found that particular potion “silly” because its function was exactly the same as muggle dish detergent.

Harry lifted an eyebrow at her and said as politely as possible, “He didn’t get a detention for failing the potion, Hermione, he got the detention for blowing up his cauldron and endangering everyone in the room.”  He gave Neville an apologetic look – he’d been practicing that one in the mirror and he personally thought he was getting good at it.  “You really should try to study more for Potions.”

Neville sighed despondently, “I do try.  I just get so nervous as soon as I walk into that room.  Professor Snape completely terrifies me.”

“Professor Snape isn’t that bad,” Harry countered.  With a glance at his pocket watch he started leading them toward Gryffindor Tower.  “I think half of his intimidation is crafted just to ensure that his students take his class seriously so that they don’t kill themselves or each other by acting like idiots.”  He paused, then smirked and added, “Don’t tell him I said that, of course.  I doubt he’d appreciate the assessment.”

Neville shuddered, probably at the idea of going to Professor Snape and repeating Harry’s assessment.

Hermione nodded approvingly and Harry quickly changed the subject before she could launch into a lecture about the sanctity of the Professors’ authority over the students, etcetera.  She hadn’t tried lecturing him on that particular topic before but he’d seen her do it to other people in the common room or during meals – usually when they were disparaging Snape.

“So, what are you doing for Christmas, Neville?”  Salazar would have snapped at him for talking about a Christian holiday, but the Boy-Who-Lived would definitely use the Christian holidays, so he just tried to remember not to mention them around the testy portrait.

“Going home,” Neville shrugged.  “Gran always orders a feast from the house-elves and a few relatives stop by – mostly Gran’s brother and his kids and grandkids.”

“What about you?” Harry asked Hermione as they started up the many sets of moving staircases toward the seventh floor.

“I’m going home, too,” Hermione grinned excitedly at the prospect.  “We’re actually flying to Italy on Christmas Eve to spend it with my _Nonna_ , mum’s mum.  Then we’re coming back on Boxing Day to spend a few days with Dad’s family in London, then home for a quiet week just the three of us until it’s time to come back.  I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to get all of my holiday assignments completed.  What about you, Harry?  What are you doing?”

“I’m going to spend it with my family,” Harry smiled as though this idea was anything other than the combination of repulsive and terrifying that it truly was.  It wasn’t that difficult an act considering that he had no intentions whatsoever to get anywhere near Privet Drive or his disgusting relatives.  He had been intending to spend the holiday at Hogwarts enjoying the peace and quiet in the library, but Madam Pomfrey and Snape had put paid to that idea when they started questioning his home life.  If he stayed at Hogwarts through the holidays it would only throw fuel on the fire of their suspicion.  He’d be okay though.  His Portable Abode was climate controlled.  He’d have to buy some winter boots and a good coat for his trips to the launderette and the grocery and Diagon Alley, but it wasn’t as though he didn’t have enough money.  And he could see about a trip into Knockturn Alley while he was in London.  It would also be nice to be out from under the watchful eyes of Snape and the million portraits for a few weeks.

“I’ve never been away from them so long before,” he said as though that might be a bad thing.  “They always have a huge tree and piles of presents every year, so I’m pretty excited,” _about not being there_.  He was quite looking forward to cooking for no one but himself and being able to eat as much as he wished.

“That sounds nice,” Hermione smiled warmly.

Harry gave her a small smile in return. 

She opened her mouth to say something more, but all that came out was a squeak when the staircase they were on moved suddenly right before they could step off on the desired landing to keep going up.  It swung around ninety degrees and stopped.

“This is the forbidden third floor corridor,” Hermione noted nervously, looking at the landing in front of them as though it may animate and attack them.

To be fair, it wasn’t impossible.

“Funny,” Harry frowned grumpily.  “One would think that the staircase wouldn’t stop here unless there was a teacher present.  There isn’t even a ward.  It’s like Professor Dumbledore _wants_ us to wander in here.”

“Don’t be absurd, Harry,” Hermione immediately chastised.  “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

“So, you’re saying he’s incompetent?” Harry asked innocently.

She blushed bright red and flapped her jaw like a fish a few times before managing to sputter out, “Of course, I’m not saying that!  What a horrible suggestion!”

Harry rolled his eyes as he stepped forward cautiously.  When the floor did not, in fact, animate and attack him, he walked forward a bit more, drawing his wand, just in case.

There was the grating stone sound of the staircase moving and he spun around to see that the stairs were, in fact, moving away.  Hermione and Neville had followed him into the corridor and now they were trapped.

He sighed in exasperation and annoyance.  He really should have seen this coming.  It just went to show that he was not overly paranoid.  If anything, he clearly needed to be _more_ paranoid.  How had he let this happen?  More importantly, he corrected himself as he turned back the other direction, what, exactly, made this corridor potentially lethal?

“Oh, no,” Neville whimpered.

Harry allowed himself to roll his eyes again since he was facing away from them and they wouldn’t know.

“What do we do now?” Hermione’s trembling voice asked a few seconds later.

Harry glanced back to find them both looking at him for an answer.  He contained a smile.  Just because he didn’t want to be a Dark Lord didn’t mean that he didn’t enjoy having people defer to him.  He glanced back down the corridor, wherein supposedly dwelt something that could inflict upon them a very painful death.  “Let’s wait here a few minutes,” he decided.  “The staircase might come back.”

They both nodded rather eagerly so he assumed they were smart enough to want to avoid the possible death as well.  He was glad there were no “true” Gryffindors here.  Ron would probably want to go explore, like risking your life was some grand “adventure”.  If you really thought about it, it was kind of amazing that so many Gryffindors survived to graduation with an attitude like that.

Fifteen minutes later, it was well past curfew and the staircase still showed no sign of moving.  Annoyingly, Harry didn’t know any spells that might help with the fact that there was no staircase.  Wingardium Leviosa doesn’t work on anything living.  McGonagall had used a spell to levitate him to the Hospital Wing on Halloween, but she hadn’t cast it verbally, so he had no chance to try to repeat it.  Even a spell to create a length of rope would be good about now, but he didn’t know any of them, either.  Frustratingly, it seemed that no matter how many spells he learned, he never had the one he really wanted for a situation.  He was going to have to spend more time studying spellcasting instead of just theory and passive magic.

But, that was for after he’d survived this.

He looked back down the dark corridor.  Was it worth the risk?  What were the odds that someone had set this up to try to kill him?  But surely there must be another way out of here somewhere down there.  This entire school was riddled with secret passages – the normal kind, not even counting the parseltongue passageways.  There was a good chance that he could find such a route down there if he looked.

With a small nod to himself, he pushed himself to his feet from where he’d been leaning against the wall next to Neville and across from Granger.

They both started at his movement, then hurried to get up as well.  He smothered another smile.  Herd behavior actually wasn’t that bad when he was being treated as the shepherd.  He glanced between the path ahead and Neville next to him.  He’d been meaning to swear Neville to secrecy the same as Hermione.  Though there were a lot of things that he could do with the Life Debt between them, secrecy was definitely the most immediately important.  Though a Life Debt was for life, he thought it was best to use them now.  Ten years from now, he hopefully wouldn’t have a lot of need for help because he’d be powerful enough on his own.  It was now that he was most vulnerable, so now is when he should use everything at his disposal.  Having two people bound to keep his secrets meant that he could use them when he needed them without worrying about exposing himself.

Considering that they were about to venture into dangerous territory and that it might be handy if Neville was bound to keep secret what happened, Harry decided that now would be a dandy time to use the Life Debt.  It wasn’t like Hermione could tell anyone about it, anyway.

“Hey, Neville,” he drew the boy’s wide-eyed attention.  “It’s a bit of a strange time, but…”  He drew himself up straighter and spoke formally the exact same words he’d used for Granger, inserting his name instead of hers.

Neville blinked when he started, then quickly straightened up as well, his round face becoming solemn enough that Harry knew for a fact that Neville had been drilled in such situations growing up.  “So mote it be,” Neville echoed him, bowing slightly from the waist.  “I’m honored to repay my debt, Heir Potter.”

Harry smirked at him a bit and clapped him on the shoulder briefly before returning his attention to the situation at hand.  “Okay.  I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m not eager to spend the night on this landing waiting to see if the stairs come back.”

Both Neville and Hermione nodded their agreement, though Neville’s was done very hesitantly.

“So, I say we head down here a bit and see if we can find another way around.  We’re going to go slow and be careful.  You two stay behind me.  Light your wands with a Lumos and hold them up.”

A pair of reluctant nods had them following his instructions without question, which was gratifying.

A few seconds after they started cautiously down the corridor, Neville uncertainly inquired, “Why don’t you light your wand, Harry?”

“Because…” Harry replied distractedly as he moved to the side of the corridor to inspect a large tapestry for possible hidden passageways.  “If there is something dangerous down here, I have the best chance of defending us.”  That was just a fact as he had already proven to think better under extreme stress than either of these two.

“Oh,” Neville said very quietly, the light from his wand letting Harry know that his hand was trembling.

Finding nothing of interest with the tapestry, Harry moved forward, keeping his own wand in his hand and mentally running through the small list of spells he knew that could in any possible way prove helpful.  “This school kind of sucks,” he muttered as he paused to investigate an alcove.

“Harry!” Hermione snapped in a scandalized hiss.  “How can you possibly say that?!”

Harry paused long enough to give her an incredulous look.  “Because, Hermione, we’ve been here four months and this is the second time our lives have been in danger.  At this point, I’m not exactly looking forward to the next six and a half years – assuming we manage to survive that long.”

A pinched expression took over the girl’s face.  “Well, I’m sure what happened with the troll was extremely unusual, Harry,” she argued, “and there’s no guarantee that we’re in any danger at all right now.  I mean, Professor Dumbledore may have been just trying to deter people from coming down here.  Really, it is pretty unlikely that he would knowingly leave something down here that could potentially harm the students and then fail to make absolutely certain that no one could become trapped down here accidentally…”

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly as she stepped back out of the alcove.  “Until I am certain that I’m wrong, I’m going to go ahead and assume the worst.  With that in mind, would you please be quiet before you draw anything dangerous right to us?”

The girl paled a bit again and pinched her lips together tightly.

Harry nodded his satisfaction and continued looking for a way out of this mess.  Perhaps, Harry reasoned after a few more minutes of searching to no avail, perhaps the dangerous _whatever_ that was down here was placed down this particular corridor because of the lack of alternate means of access, and, unfortunately, escape.  That also made him wonder if it was truly a coincidence that he would find himself here.  Why him?  Why again?  Why had the stairs dumped them off here and failed to return?

He’d already concluded that someone had most likely deliberately let the troll into the school, though he had no more idea whether it had been targeting him or if he’d merely been unlucky enough to encounter it.  Now, though…  What were the odds of this happening by mere chance as well?  Perhaps there _was_ someone in the school trying to kill him.  It wouldn’t be all that surprising, honestly.  He was the Boy-Who-Lived, with all the enemies inherent to that title.  He didn’t think it was Snape despite his suspicions about that man’s loyalties.  He’d seemed to hate Harry so much, so instantly that it stood to reason that the man hated him for allegedly killing Voldemort.  Paradoxically, however, the man genuinely seemed to care about the well-being of his students.  He’d even been involved in Madam Pomfrey’s attempted intervention into his “home” life.

No, Harry would be extremely surprised if Snape meant him any true harm despite the vitriol he was constantly spewing at him.  Which meant Quirrell was the next best suspect.  Harry was decently certain that the troll was Quirrell’s doing given what Rhast had told him.  The man was constantly trying to get into Harry’s head, which did not speak well of his intentions.  He supposed the man had been or perhaps still was a supporter of Voldemort.  Salazar seemed very convinced that “Tom” as he called him, was still around and would return eventually, and Harry had no reason to doubt him. 

So, there was a rather good chance that his being in this corridor was someone’s attempt to kill him.  Given that, he wondered if it was terribly foolish of him to be exploring it at all.  Perhaps he should turn back and just spend the night on the floor until either the stairs moved or someone found them.  If someone tried to give him detention for being down a forbidden corridor or being out after curfew, he’d have a few choice words to express about the hazards of staircases trapping students where they shouldn’t be and the lack of even the simplest of warding.  Even the Restricted Section in the library was more secure than this supposedly deadly corridor!

Before he could give that more consideration, his attention was drawn by a strange sensation.  There was some sort of magic resonating from the door at the end of the corridor up ahead.  It felt like a combination of Charms and Warding and something else… mind magic by the way it tingled across his scalp.  One thing he had learned definitively by this point was that the more layers of magic combined into anything, the more intricate it was.  His fledgling knowledge of magical theory assured him that combining different kinds of magic and layering it into anything – enchantment, ward, potion, spell, etc. – it was extremely complex.  Each addition increased the complexity exponentially. 

What all of that meant was that someone powerful and skilled had gone to a lot of work to build that ward by that door.

But it wasn’t keeping students away from it.  Quite the contrary, he was feeling a _pull_ from it.  It was trying to draw him toward it. 

Just as he was processing that fact, he heard a whispered _alohamora_ and his mind snapped back to the rest of his senses in time to see Hermione swing open the door.

He’d stopped when he’d become aware of the strange magic ahead, but he realized now that his companions had done the opposite.  They’d succumbed to the ward and gone toward it.  They were now several meters in front of him, standing right in front of the door.  And now that the door was open he could feel a magical signature inside.  It was powerful in a way that was very different from human magic and there was a wildness to it, a feral flavor that made him extremely wary.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even stop to think.  He felt the attention of the beast inside turn toward the opened door.  It was piqued and aggressive and Harry knew with an instinctive certainty what was about to happen.  As when he’d saved Neville when he’d fallen off his broom, there was no time to think.  He rushed forward, planted a hand on each of their shoulders and yanked them back.

They landed on top of him, knocking the air out of him quite painfully, and he heard a snarling growl and felt a gust of air rush into them.  He lifted his head to see a massive paw sticking out through the door, trying and just barely failing to claw their feet.  The frustrated paw was soon replaced by a gaping, slathering maw snarling at them as it failed to fit through the door.

Disturbingly, that head then moved aside and another took its place, only for another to shortly fight for dominance.

“Cerberus,” he heard Hermione mutter through her shock.

Finally, managing to draw a breath, Harry pushed on the two bodies on top of him.  Neville was a chubby boy at least twice Harry’s weight and even Hermione probably weighed more as she was several inches taller than his tiny, frail frame despite the weight he’d put on since leaving the Dursleys.  “C’mon, move.  I can’t breathe,” he complained when his shoving failed to gain a reaction.

He felt Hermione flinch and finally roll off him.  Thankfully, she rolled to the side and quickly moved further out of the reach of the beast desperately trying to eat them.  Happily, it did _not_ seem able to get its body through the door.  Her move seemed to jar Neville into action and he followed her lead, quickly scrambling away from the danger.

“Blimey, Harry, you saved my life again,” he gasped as Harry finally got to his feet.

Harry just nodded because there was no doubt in his mind that the Cerberus would have killed whichever one of them it managed to get hold of first.  He wasn’t going to complain about the Life Debts, they were quite handy after all.  Still, he was a bit disturbed to realize that he’d endangered himself once more in a Gryffindor display of impulsiveness.

Then again, there really wasn’t time to think sometimes.  If he’d paused to wonder what he _should_ do, it would have been too late to do anything but watch them die.  He supposed, sometimes, there really was nothing to do but trust his instincts.

“There’s no way out down here,” Harry said after a moment to compose himself.  He glanced back at the snarling beast _still_ trying to get to them, filling the corridor with some rather rancid dog breath, then looked at his companions again.  “Let’s go back to the stairwell and wait.”

The other two nodded without any hesitation.

Five minutes later – it didn’t take nearly as long when they weren’t constantly stopping to search for secret passages – they were standing at the end of the corridor looking at the stairs, which were once again available.

Harry narrowed his eyes at them and let his magic out a bit so that he could feel at more of a distance.  They seemed to be alone, he noted as he moved onto the staircase with Neville and Hermione joining him immediately.  As soon as they were on, the stairs rotated back to connect the way they’d been trying to go up to Gryffindor Tower in the first place.

“That’s lucky,” Neville muttered.

Harry shook his head, “I very much doubt it.”

They walked in silence up a couple of floors before Neville shakily posed, “What do you suppose that thing’s doing in the school?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione demanded immediately.  “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

Harry gave her a look that expressed just how much he didn’t appreciate her tone.

She blushed instantly, “Oh, I suppose you were a bit busy saving our lives.”

Harry released her from his glare for that correction, but said nothing.

“There was a trap door,” she muttered quietly a moment later.  “It must be guarding something.”

Harry shook his head, “Even if that is the case, why a Cerberus?  Why endanger the students like that?”

“We weren’t supposed to be down there at all,” Hermione tartly reminded him.

“We didn’t _try_ to be down there!” he snapped right back, causing her to fall silent once more, her eyes slipping to the floor.  “Not every adult has the best interests of children at heart, Hermione,” he said more gently but still firmly.  “In the muggle world there are millions of people who abuse or kill or _molest_ children.  There is no reason to think the wizarding world is any different.  So, kindly stop placing blind trust in every authority figure.  Someone with a professor’s level access to the Hogwarts’ wards let a troll into the school, and someone placed a ward around that door with the Cerberus that was pulling people _toward_ it rather than warning them away.  Someone in this school has, at the very least, no concern at all whether the students live or die if he or she isn’t actually _trying_ to kill us.  I’m sick of listening to you deify people who have done nothing to earn your respect.”

They had reached Gryffindor Tower by the time he finished his rant and he quickly spat out the password before leading them inside.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m rather exhausted.”  He made a bee-line for his dormitory, certain that he could tolerate Granger no more this evening.

* * *

Neville watched Harry walk briskly toward their dorm, then glanced back at Hermione.  Neville knew that Harry could be rather distant.  He was usually friendly enough with everyone, though more with the kids that didn’t skive off homework and mess about all the time.  He was always quick to drop everything if someone needed help with something, especially their lessons.  He was kind of a loner, though.  He tended to spend a lot of time alone in the library or alone in the dorm working on homework or reading supplemental books for his classes.

In all the months that they’d been sharing a dorm and all of their classes, though, Neville had never seen the other boy so cold.  By the look on Hermione’s face, though, she wasn’t so much surprised by Harry’s behavior toward her, but rather somewhat disappointed.  She did spend more time with Harry than anyone else as far as Neville knew.  He supposed that she’d seen him like that before.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” Neville said quietly, receiving a distracted reply before he made his way up the way Harry had gone.

He could hear the shower running faintly in the bathroom as he entered their dorm.  That was one quirk of Harry’s that he _had_ noticed.  That boy took more showers than the rest of them combined.  Occasionally, as many as three in a day.  He didn’t seem to be obsessively neat or afraid of germs or anything like that.  He just liked to shower.

Neville took his time changing into his pajamas and was just lying down when Harry stepped out of the bathroom already changed for bed.  The rest of their dorm mates were already asleep, Ron’s snoring doing plenty to cover up any noise they might have made.

Neville’s mind drifted back to what had happened that evening.  “Hey, Harry,” he whispered cautiously a few seconds after the other boy had settled himself in his bed.

“Yes?” he responded after only a second’s hesitation.

“Do…  Do you ever feel afraid?” he asked uncertainly.

He was surprised by the quiet laugh from the other boy.  “Of course, I do, Neville.  There would have to be something wrong with me if I didn’t.”

“You don’t seem like it,” Neville reasoned.  “You don’t seem like you’re afraid of anything.  You stand up to the Slytherins and you never shy away from Professor Snape.  You saved me during flying and the whole school knows what you did for Hermione with that troll.”  Hermione had very enthusiastically told everyone about how Harry had rescued her at great personal risk.  “How do you do that if you’re afraid?”

“It doesn’t mean that I’m not afraid.  I just don’t let my fear control me.”

Neville turned over to look at the other boy in the dim room.  How did one learn to control fear?  That was a trick that he would give a lot to learn.  He felt like his fear was always controlling him.  “How did you learn that?” he asked.

Despite the shadows, Neville could easily see the way Harry’s face hardened in response the question, his eyes turning icy in a way that frankly scared the crap out of him.

“Spend enough of your life afraid, Neville, and you either learn to control it or it will destroy you,” he whispered darkly.

Neville swallowed uneasily.  He was starting to realize that Harry really wasn’t that much like everyone thought he was.  Or maybe it would be more fair to say that there was a lot more to him than he showed anyone else.  Thinking about what he had said, Neville wondered if he was ever going to learn to control his fear.  Because he felt like his whole life was about everything that he feared.  Disappointing his Gran, not living up to his parents’ legacy, failing in school, Professor Snape actually turning him into potions ingredients, doing something _else_ stupid in front of the whole school, being alone at the mercy of the Slytherins… and on and on and on.  It was exhausting.  Now, he had a new fear.  That all of his fear was going to destroy him completely like Harry said.

“I wasn’t supposed to be a Gryffindor,” he admitted quietly, his self-loathing just about choking him.  He knew that he didn’t belong in this House despite convincing the Hat to put him here.  “My Gran wanted me to be in Gryffindor like my dad, so I begged the Hat to put me here, but I know I don’t belong.  I should have let it put me in Hufflepuff.”  They were supposed to be really loyal.  Maybe he’d have made a friend there if he was one of them.

“You’re not the only one to go against the Hat’s advice, Neville,” Harry said after a moment.  “I have absolutely no doubt that Hermione was meant to be a Ravenclaw.”  He hesitated a moment, then added, “It wanted me in Slytherin.”

“What?” Neville gaped at the other boy.

Harry made a small movement that Neville thought was a shrug.  “I already knew what kind of reputation Slytherin has.  I knew what everyone would think if I was sorted there, so I asked it to put me somewhere else.”

Harry sounded so matter-of-fact, but Neville could hardly believe it.  How was it possible that Harry Potter was supposed to be a Slytherin??

“That’s a secret, of course,” Harry murmured with a wry smile.

“Of course,” Neville agreed immediately.  He couldn’t imagine what would happen if the whole school learned of that.

“Goodnight, Neville,” Harry said after a moment, completely casual as though he hadn’t just told Neville something completely unbelievable.

“G’night, Harry,” Neville whispered a moment late.

He lay in bed awake for a long time after he heard Harry’s breathing deepen to join the others in sleep.  He was still trying to wrap his mind around it.  Harry was meant to be a Slytherin.  The bravest boy Neville had ever met, heck, the bravest _person_ he’d ever met, and he wasn’t even supposed to be a Gryffindor.  That could only mean that Harry’s Slytherin traits were an even stronger part of his personality than his bravery.

But Slytherin wasn’t all about mean and evil people.  He _did_ know that.  Slytherin was for people that were ambitious and cunning and resourceful.  Someone cunning enough to know that he should avoid being sorted into Slytherin.  Someone resourceful enough to blend in amongst the Gryffindors.  Sure, he stood out, but he seemed way more like a Gryffindor than Neville or Hermione did.  Neville didn’t know what Harry’s ambition might be, but if he was supposed to be a Slytherin then surely he had one.  That really only left Neville with one question.

Why had Harry told _him_ , of all people?  Well, there was the Life Debt preventing him from telling anyone else since it was clearly a secret, but…  He still hadn’t had to tell him.

Neville turned his head toward the other boy’s sleeping form and dared to wonder if it was possible that he might have Harry as a friend.  Maybe not yet, but… someday.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the Timeline: I’ve moved back the start of Winter Break by a few days because canon had them still at Hogwarts during Yule and I don’t see purebloods like Lucius Malfoy standing for something like that. At least, not in my AU in which wizards and witches don’t follow religions that do not “suffer a witch to live”. Well, some of the liberals do because they’re idiots and conformists.

* * *

**19 December 1991**

“Mr. Potter.  Stay after class,” Severus drawled malevolently as he gazed into the boy’s cauldron at a nearly perfect potion.  At least the brat had gotten over whatever urge it had been that had prompted him to play dumb in his first few lessons.  He never raised his hand in class, but he answered every question asked and the vast majority of them were correct answers.  Unlike Granger, Potter didn’t recite verbatim passages from textbooks, either.  His answers tended to sound like conclusions drawn from reading several sources on the same material. 

Severus couldn’t help but find it incredibly annoying that he found the boy somewhat impressive.  He didn’t _want_ to find anything about the brat impressive.  He didn’t want to worry about him either, but then, life had never been fair.

It took only a few minutes for the students to bottle and turn in their potions, clean their stations, and vacate the room.  A few of the Slytherins – Draco, notably – took the opportunity to jeer Potter on the way out.  Severus mentally sighed at the sight.  He loved his godson dearly, but that boy had no acquaintance with the harsh realities of the world, having been reared in a carefully crafted bubble of Malfoy superiority.  Someday, that bubble was going to pop and Draco was going to have a very difficult time with it.  He just hoped that it didn’t get him killed.

Soon, he was alone in the room with Potter.  A flick of his wand sealed the door and silenced it.  The very last thing he needed was for Draco to listen at the door and infer anything from this conversation that he could spread around the school or send to the _Daily Prophet_.  Only because he was watching the boy so closely did he notice the subtle tensing that highly suggested the boy was aware of the fact that he was now trapped in the room alone with his harshest professor. 

“Was there a problem with my potion, Professor?” Potter asked after a moment of silence.  The brat looked and sounded genuine in his question though Severus didn’t doubt for a moment that the child was perfectly aware of the answer to that question.

“You didn’t sign up to spend the holiday at school,” Severus observed bluntly after a brief pause.

The little menace didn’t even flinch at the subject.  His brow rose just a little.  That was all.  “No, sir,” he said, as though it should have been patently obvious.  “I haven’t seen my family in months.  I’m really looking forward to seeing them again.”

Severus didn’t let himself frown at the fact that he detected no lie in that.  Neither was he able to discern any bit of fear or dread.  The boy really seemed perfectly content with going home to see his family.  It didn’t make sense.  Potter exhibited many signs of an abused child.  Pain tolerance.  Reclusiveness.  The ability to lie exceptionally well.  Lack of trust.  Those bright green eyes that he could scarcely even compare to Lily’s for the utter lack of warmth in them.  Potter had been through something terrible and it had happened over an extended period of time.

“Was that all, Professor?” Potter asked innocently.  “I’m really hungry.”  His body turned slightly toward the door, telegraphing his wish to depart.

Another tell.  If Potter truly had a perfectly normal home life, he’d certainly be more confused about having it questioned.  Potter had remained perfectly calm and answered all of the questions he’d been asked believably, but he hadn’t really seemed bothered by the fact that they were asked in the first place.  Someone who cared for their family likely would have been insulted on their behalf by the insinuation.  No, Potter was still lying.  But Severus doubted that he was going to get anywhere by continuing the line of questioning.

“No, Potter.  That was all.”  Severus waved his wand to open the door and Potter headed that way at once. 

The boy paused just inside the door and turned back to him with a tiny smile.  “Happy Holidays, Professor,” he said quickly before leaving without expecting a response.

Severus frowned after the brat.  Yet another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.  Despite the fact that he was unfailingly foul to the boy during class and whenever they met outside of it, Potter had never been hostile toward him.  He’d been very, very cold the first couple of months, but always perfectly polite.  After Halloween, however…  Since then the boy had been much more neutral toward him.  Increasingly so.  It was as if something that had happened that night, or perhaps his presence in the infirmary with Poppy the next morning, had convinced the boy that Severus was not as out to get him as Severus tried to pretend.  All of his insults just rolled right off the boy as though he could not hear them or did not understand them, and now the brat was wishing him happy holidays as though he _liked_ him!

Severus could only conclude that the boy was better at reading people than he had guessed.  The boy had realized that the majority of Severus’ animosity was contrived and had therefore ceased to take offense to _any_ of it.

With a sigh, Severus tried to clear his mind of the boy as he moved to his desk to put away the vials from his last class before going to lunch himself.  He’d spent far too much time this year thinking about Harry bloody Potter.  Sadly, he knew that he’d find no peace until he’d solved the puzzle the boy had presented to him.  With that in mind, he resolved to stop by the boy’s family home over the holiday and have a look at the situation for himself.  He remembered Minerva had mentioned that Potter lived in Surrey.  He doubted that it would be too difficult to locate Petunia Dursley there.

* * *

Harry left the potions’ classroom with a pensive frown.  He could not pin down Snape’s interest in his home life.  The man was extremely vexing.  Snape, Harry suspected, wore as many masks as he himself.  In public, the man could not possibly have loathed him any more.  He constantly picked on him, snarled at him, and judged him unfairly.

Then he found himself alone with him and the man acted like he was _worried_ about him.

Harry’s best theory at the moment was that Snape didn’t really have anything particular against Harry, but he wanted everyone to think that he did.  He could only guess that the man wanted people to think he hated him for supposedly killing Voldemort, even though he didn’t.  Maybe a lot of his friends were supporters and he didn’t want them to think he didn’t feel as strongly?  Or maybe it was something to do with being Head of Slytherin and wanting his students to think that he was…  But that didn’t make any sense because the majority of the Slytherins didn’t seem to hate Harry on principle.  Oh, they picked on him and mocked him when they had the chance, but Harry thought that was more a combination of House rivalry and Harry’s public stance against Draco.  Even Draco hadn’t hated Harry on principle.  Their animosity had only come around after Harry had insulted him on the train.

He wasn’t sure what to make of Snape, but he wasn’t overly worried about it.  He’d already figured out that Snape wasn’t a bad person – not like the Dursleys were.  Whatever game the man was playing, Harry wasn’t going to take it personally.  He just wished the professor would stop prying into his life away from Hogwarts.  It was kind of nice to know that someone cared enough to try to do something about the Dursleys, but the man was ten years too late to give Harry the help he’d needed.

Irritation aside, Harry was rather pleased with his performance.  Not only had he remained calm and thought on his feet, he’d avoided telling any outright lies, a feat he’d been practicing this last week since Salazar had confided in him that particularly skilled legilimens were capable of detecting lies.

Disturbing fact: Passive legilimency was always active.  Once a legilimens reached a certain level of expertise, his magic was always attuned to picking up inconsistencies in the minds around him to determine if they were lying and even pick out strong emotions that may be hidden.  On Salazar’s advice, Harry had started to try to avoid lying all the time since one could never be certain when he was in the presence of a legilimens – plus it was just good practice.  With Snape just now, Harry had told the truth.  He _hadn’t_ seen his family in months, and he _was_ looking forward to seeing them again.  Of course, the next time he planned to see them was when he was ready to employ some of the “games” he’d spent the last five years dreaming up. 

Thoughts of Snape fled his mind as he stepped into the Great Hall a few minutes late for lunch and found his eyes immediately drawn to a head of pale blond hair.  He blamed that stupid mirror for his growing obsession with the Slytherin.  Oh, he’d found him interesting before and certainly pretty, but he was pretty sure that he hadn’t been nearly as interesting before that blasted mirror had shown him a scene from a possible future.  The idea of the kind of relationship that the mirror had portrayed was both exhilarating and terrifying.  Whether he’d ever actually allow it to come to fruition or not didn’t matter.  The mere possibility would not leave him alone.

Draco was smiling – well, smirking – with his friends.  They seemed to be in the midst of some very entertaining conversation and Harry felt a sharp stab of jealousy and regret.  If he’d snubbed Ron that first day as he’d wanted and taken Draco’s hand – if he’d allowed the Hat to place him in Slytherin…  If he’d just come to the wizarding world as himself, he could have been a part of that.  He could have surrounded himself with people he actually found interesting rather than tolerating the bossy mudblood and the spineless blood traitor spawn.

Oh, the Gryffindor misfits were tolerable enough.  Hermione was smart, but she was such a _good girl_.  And Neville was getting a little better as he spent more time with them.  He talked more, now.  They were not, however, the sort of people that he could imagine ever agreeing with his opinions on magic and the wizarding world – and bloody Dumbledore.  The Slytherins very well may have.

He shook himself from his melancholy and allowed no more than a few seconds looking at the Slytherins before making his way to the Gryffindor table.  He’d made his choice and he still believed it had been the right one.  The Boy-Who-Lived was meant to be a Gryffindor.  He was meant to be funny and polite and terribly brave.  Anything else would have drawn scrutiny.  Had he been a Slytherin, there would have been very little doubt in anyone’s mind that he was an evil little Dark Lord in training.  The fact that that belief would have been at least partially correct would have only made matters worse.  People saw what they wanted and expected to see.  Reality could only temper that.  He’d rather not have everyone constantly scrutinizing him for “Dark” leanings when they very well may find truth there.

The Light shone so brightly here that even the darkest shadows could hide within it.  He was perfectly content to remain concealed among them for now.  Maybe one day he’d let them see the truth, but not until he was powerful enough to protect himself.

* * *

 

**20 December 1991**

The train ride back to London for winter break was magnitudes more pleasant than the ride to Hogwarts had been.  The cause of the positive change could easily be attributed to the company.  He shared his compartment now with Neville and Hermione rather than the eminently annoying Ron Weasley.  They were made even more pleasant by the fact that they were reading silently to themselves and allowing him to do the same.

Neville with his nose in a book was an increasingly common sight since he’d started spending time with Harry and Hermione.  His grades had improved drastically, as well.  Harry spent most of his free time in the library or doing homework – well, the free time that he spent with Hermione and Neville, at least – and Hermione usually did the same.  If Neville wanted to spend time with them, he had little to do but follow their example.  Seeing as the kid had no one else willing to hang out with him, it wasn’t surprising he’d latched onto them at the opportunity provided by Harry calling in the Life Debt.  Hermione had apparently decided that she and Neville were both part of some exclusive Harry Potter Life Debtor club, and hadn’t hesitated to include the boy in everything she possibly could the morning after what Harry mentally dubbed the Cerberus Incident.

Consequently, Neville spent a lot of time reading.  Hermione was also always eager to help him out when he was confused.  When she failed to explain something in a way that Neville could grasp, Harry tended to get irritated enough listening to them that he stepped in and helped the boy himself.  Hermione was a perfectly intelligent girl, but she also existed on her own plane of existence and couldn’t always bridge the gap to comprehend the way normal kids their age thought.  Harry had less difficulty with that.  He’s survived as a child by his ability to read people – to understand what and how they thought and why they did what they did.  Whether it was knowing when Dudley and his friends would try to ambush him, knowing when Petunia was about to swing a pan at his head, or silencing himself before he could push Vernon over the edge, it was a skill he’d learned well.  He’d never before realized that the same ability could translate into something as simple as understanding which part of Hermione’s explanation was stumping Neville and how to make him get it. 

He even took some enjoyment from teaching the other boy.  Neville truly wasn’t a stupid person regardless of what Ron liked to insinuate.  His self-confidence was just so incredibly low that he’d never tried very hard, assuming that he couldn’t possibly succeed, so why bother?  Harry found it entertaining to watch as Neville grasped what he was explaining.  The boy always got this look of wonder, as though he could barely believe that he actually understood.  That was always immediately followed by a vaguely worshipful look for Harry himself, as though Neville was crediting Harry entirely with the success.

Admittedly, receiving that look may have had something to do with Harry’s enjoyment of the entire process.

The shy boy still wasn’t very strong in the practical aspect of his classes, but he had been getting a little better since Hermione and Harry both had coached him through the concept of finesse. 

Judging by the warm smiles sent their way, Harry suspected that a number of the professors approved of their taking Neville under their proverbial wing.  Hermione had even started partnering with the boy in potions, which prevented any number of catastrophes.  That left Harry with Dean Thomas by process of elimination, but the other boy was tolerable.  He mostly just did what Harry told him to do and let Harry handle the more delicate parts of the preparation.  Ron worked with Seamus now, which was a frightening combination over a cauldron, but they meshed well for the fact that they seemed to hate Snape with an equally blazing fury.

Harry was just getting to a really interesting part in his book – the only occlumency book in Salazar’s library that was written in modern English – when the compartment door slid open sharply.  Draco Malfoy sauntered in like he owned the place, sneering at Neville and Hermione as though their very existence insulted him.  Crabbe and Goyle lurked in the doorway behind him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled arrogantly.  “The Boy Hero with his Mudblood and Blood Traitor retainers on their way home for _Christmas_.  How… quaint.  What are you doing for the holidays, then?” he asked with faux politeness.  “Oh, wait.  I know,” he interrupted despite the fact that no one was saying anything.  “The Mudblood will be reading stories and singing carols about the muggle messiah, who, by the way, advocates the extermination of wizardkind.  And the Blood Traitor will be at St. Mungo’s celebrating with dear mummy and daddy.”

Harry blinked.  St. Mungo’s was the wizarding hospital, he knew that.  He did _not_ know why Neville’s parents would be there.  He was slightly bothered that the other boy would have neglected to tell him something so important.  It wasn’t because he _cared_ about the boy or anything absurd like that.  No.  He just… would have thought it would have come up with all the time they’d been spending together and the holiday season and all.  Surely, people talked about such things, right?

Neville, Harry noted, had gone very pale since Draco had mentioned St. Mungo’s, so he likely hadn’t wanted them to know about his parents.  Hermione was, conversely, very red and she looked furious.  Harry wasn’t entirely sure why.  Draco hadn’t actually said anything to her that wasn’t true.

Harry was about to open his mouth and snap something suitably Gryffindor when it occurred to him that Hermione and Neville were sworn to secrecy and no one that mattered would believe anything Draco, Crabbe, or Goyle said about him.  With that in mind, Harry smirked instead of pretending to be angry.

Closing his book in his lap, Harry lifted his hands to give slow, mocking applause.  “Well done, Malfoy.  You’re so very witty, you’ve left us all shaking with shame and fury,” he ignored the fact that his words had done that very thing to his two companions.  “Truly, you’ve put us Gryffindors in our place.  Excellent job.  Thank you for stopping by, but I’m afraid we weren’t expecting visitors.  We were rather in the middle of something.  Have a pleasant Yule.”

The totally gobsmacked look on the Slytherin’s pretty face was more than worth it.  Harry probably could have stripped naked and danced the length of the train and gotten exactly the same look.

“Weren’t expecting… pleasant Yule?  _What are you playing at, Potter_?” the boy demanded as though he was commanding the world to start making sense again.

Harry set aside his book and stood with a smile, taking a step closer to Draco and placing himself in the other boy’s personal space.  “No game, Malfoy,” he said pleasantly.  “Perhaps, I’ve merely been beset by the spirit of the holiday and find myself incapable of being unpleasant.”  It wasn’t until he was close enough that he was sure Draco could feel his breath on his face as he spoke that the other boy seemed to contemplate the fact and stumble back, bumping into his bodyguards.

“You’re mad, Potter,” he muttered, his cheeks burning red and looking immensely confused as he turned and shoved through the heavier boys to flee the compartment.  Crabbe and Goyle followed right after and Harry closed the door with a decisive snap before returning to his seat and his book.

A long moment of tense silence followed.  Well, it was tense on the other side of the compartment.  Harry was rather at ease as he pretended to read whilst privately savoring the reactions he’d garnered from the blond boy.  Merlin, he’d been wanting to do something like that all term.  Draco was so emotional.  So easily manipulated.  It was torture to deliberately avoid the many openings Draco offered in their verbal sparring, but Gryffindors reacted to goading with angry displays of temper, not sly demonstrations of wit.

“What just happened?” Hermione finally asked.

Harry glanced up innocently, but didn’t completely repress his satisfied smirk.  “I got rid of him, didn’t I?”

“But why…  Why didn’t you get mad at him?”  Her face screwed up in consternation then, and she irritably added, “What does ‘mudblood’ mean?”

Neville blushed bright red when she directed her questioning look at him and he immediately began stammering excuses along the lines of, “I couldn’t… not proper… I never…”

“It is a slur against muggleborns,” Harry interrupted, slightly amused by Neville’s discomfort.  “It refers to your magical blood being muddied by that of your muggle parents.”

“That’s horrible,” Hermione gasped.

Harry shrugged, “I wouldn’t get so worked up about it.”

“How could I not?” Hermione demanded.  “It’s insinuating that there’s something _wrong_ with the fact that my parents are muggles.  Like it’s _shameful_!”

Harry sighed and closed his book on his lap again.  He resisted the urge to tell her that it _was_ shameful to be closely related to those forsaken by Magick.  It _was_ shameful that her magic was stolen for her from some other helpless baby.  “Their prejudice isn’t completely without merit, Hermione,” he pointed out instead.

“…how can you-?”  She looked utterly betrayed by his statement.

“Halloween,” he interrupted.

“What?” she murmured uncertainly.

“Halloween is a muggle monstrosity made out of a Christian religious holiday, Allhallowtide, which was adopted into their religion from some pagan muggles who had picked up on the wizarding holiday, All Soul’s Day.  In the time of the founders, school would have been suspended for the day and the one immediately before and after for preparation, observance, and reflection.  It is the day of the year when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest – that bit of modern muggle lore is actually true.  Wizards used to – and some of the conservatives still do – use the day to conduct rituals possible only on that one day each year to connect with honored ancestors and lost loved ones.  Depending on the strength and desire of the caster, the connection can be literally a face-to-face conversation with the dead or merely an impression of thoughts and feelings or sometimes just a sense of a presence.  It was considered one of the most sacred days of the year.

“Then, some liberal politician got it into his head that these poor muggleborns coming into the wizarding world were feeling uncomfortable with rituals that call forth the dead.  Muggle lore confused such things with necromancy, which is the binding and control of the dead in body, soul, or sometimes both.  And so it was made _illegal_ to celebrate All Soul’s Day.  Instead, we are expected to recognize the muggle’s mockery of their own bastardization of our holiday.  Instead of communing with lost loved ones, witches and wizards are expected to eat large amounts of sweets and carve silly faces into gourds.

“It’s an insult.  A grave one.  And it’s all being done in the name of muggleborns.  And All Soul’s Day isn’t the only sacred day to suffer.  We’re now expected to celebrate Christmas, which is touted as the birth of the Christian messiah instead of the winter solstice and Easter has overtaken the celebration of the vernal equinox.  Traditions that have stood for more than _ten thousand_ years are being banned.  Just to make you comfortable.  We are expected to honor celebrations of a religion that not only demonizes magical beings, but actively participated in _burning us at the stake_.”

Hermione blushed faintly, but couldn’t help interrupting with, “But they never actually killed any witches during the witch trials, because they just cast flame freezing charms…”

“Lies!” Harry spat.  “Propaganda and lies.  You think everyone is capable of casting a flame-freezing charm?  Well, come on then,” he urged, drawing his wand and pointing it at her.  “Cast one now.  You’ve got five seconds before I light you on fire.”

She paled drastically and fumbled for her wand, which he immediately leaned forward and snatched from her hand.

“Well?” he demanded when she just looked at him in horror.  “What?  Don’t tell me that you’re completely helpless now just because I took away your wand?  Don’t you suppose that muggles actively hunting witches and wizards may have cottoned on to that tactic as well?  What about children too young to have a wand?  What about those too weak to even cast that charm?  What about the _ninety percent_ of the magical world that is too weak to attend Hogwarts?”

“Ninety percent?” the pale girl whispered in horrified disbelief.

Harry huffed humorlessly and tossed her wand back to her.  “In all that reading you do, Hermione, you might devote a little time to studying the world you’ve joined.  Yes.  Ninety percent.  Hogwarts only accepts the top ten percent of magical humans.”

“It’s true,” Neville muttered quietly.  “My Gran didn’t think I’d be powerful enough.  Sometimes I think they made a mistake.”

Harry didn’t mention it, but he’d wondered the same thing.  Neville’s practical performance was dreadful still, despite the fact that Harry could now definitively say that his execution of certain spells was perfect, having coaching it himself.  “People who go to Hogwarts don’t become janitors or maids.  They don’t cook at a pub or wait tables.  They become craftsmen, inventors, potioneers, politicians, Wardmasters, spellcrafters, and healers.  Who, exactly, did you imagine was cleaning floors and making beds and cooking meals?”  House-elves were ridiculously expensive and only the elite could afford to keep them, but he wasn’t going to get into house-elves with Hermione if he could help it.

Harry shook his head dismissively, “That’s not the point.  The point is that the purebloods don’t hate muggleborns without cause.  No, it’s not really a _just_ cause.  It’s not entirely your fault that our world is being changed to suit you, after all.  It’s people like Dumbledore…”  He glared when Hermione interrupted to add the old man’s title to his name and she swiftly shut up.  “It’s people like _Dumbledore_ ,” he said again, pointedly neglecting the title a second time, “who are pushing for these changes in your name.”

“Blood traitors,” Neville recognized quietly.

“Exactly,” Harry nodded.

“So, do you hate all muggleborns, too?” Hermione asked tartly, her back ramrod straight and her eyes burning with betrayal.

Harry didn’t bother replying to that, simply fixing her with a supremely disappointed look.

Her cheeks pinked under his stare and she looked away for a moment before returning her eyes to him with determination.  “Well, maybe not me, but muggleborns in general, right?”

“I’m not racist,” Harry promised with a vaguely amused laugh.

Her eyes remained somewhat distrustful, but she finally let the subject drop, perhaps afraid of what he might say if she kept pressing him.  She turned to Neville instead, “So, what did Malfoy mean about visiting your parents in the hospital?” she asked with her usual complete lack of tact.

Neville blushed a deep red and turned his face down as though his hands in his lap had just become the most fascinating thing in the room.  “Um…  M-my parents are in the J… the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s.  That’s… it’s for incurable spell damage,” he almost whispered, the words wrenched from him as though completely against his will.  “They w-were cursed.  A few days after You-Know-Who was… after Harry defeated him…  Some of his followers… Death Eaters… they came to the Villa where we lived, and…  They wanted to know where You-Know-Who was… thought my parents could tell them because they were Aurors, but they didn’t know any more than anyone else…  They…  The C-cruci-iatus Curse…  It drives you mad after a while.  B-breaks your mi-ind.”

“Oh, Neville, I’m so sorry,” Hermione gasped, scooting across the bench to wrap her arms around the boy.

Harry kept his face neutral as Neville glanced up at him nervously over Hermione’s shoulder.  The boy was beginning to make more sense to him now.  His parents were heroically wounded in battle, Gran never got over it, put too much pressure on Neville to fill his father’s shoes, and Neville was crushed beneath the expectations.  Deep down, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Neville actually resented his parents for being so much better than he could ever imagine himself being.  For getting themselves hurt and leaving him with such a difficult childhood.  He probably hated himself for feeling that way, too.

He didn’t want his friends to know because he hated being compared to them and found wanting.  He didn’t want them to know because he was so ashamed of himself for how he felt about them, both loving and hating them for the parents they could have been under other circumstances.

Or, so he guessed.  Maybe he was just projecting his own fucked up mummy and daddy issues.

So, he didn’t react strongly to the news.  Instead, he just nodded.  “I’m sorry to hear that, Neville.  It sounds like they were very brave people.  Just don’t forget that All Soul’s Day is about remembering the past.  Yule is about new beginnings.”

And there was that worshiping look again.

Harry preened internally as he opened his book once more and resumed his reading about organizing and controlling his mind.  A minute later, Hermione finally let go and they both went back to silently reading as well.

* * *

When the train finally pulled into the station, Harry said a quick goodbye to his companions, wishing them both a happy holiday before making haste back to the muggle side of the station and slipping into the crowds.  With the upcoming holiday, the station was positively packed with muggles, and Harry was glad to use that to his advantage.  Neville wouldn’t be coming this way, but Hermione would and he’d just as soon avoid any awkward questions about where his family was waiting for him.

He quickly located a secluded corner near the trolley return.  The area was a dead end and therefore most people were avoiding it.  Harry made quick work of opening his animal compartment and waiting for his invisible familiar to extricate himself, which he did quickly.  Rhast really hated being stuck in that compartment.

“ _That is a terrible way to travel!”_ Rhast complained – a statement he was fond of repeating.

Harry shook his head and glanced around quickly for witnesses before shrinking down the trunk and stuffing it in his pocket, “ _Honestly, Rhast, you’re a snake_ ,” Harry couldn’t help but point out.

“ _I know that!”_ Rhast shot back indignantly.

“ _No_ ,” Harry chuckled, “ _I meant: Don’t snakes usually live in cramped little dens under rocks?”_

“ _Snakes, perhaps_ ,” Rhast said with his nose pointed up in what Harry personally considered a rather good imitation of Draco, “ _I am no mere snake.  I am a basilisk, and we demand a higher standard of living_.”

Harry frowned as he started out of the station.  He’d worried, before, that Rhast would get trampled in a crowd.  Apparently, the snake had taken that as a challenge and had been practicing maneuvering busy corridors.  Harry hadn’t been pleased when the snake had told him that, but his familiar had been clever enough to wait until he’d become accomplished at it before telling him, so there hadn’t been much to say at that point.  Rhast used the skill now to keep up with him through the busy station.  He was rather massive, but it was his speed that kept him safe.  That and a preternatural awareness.

Knowing that the snake was not enjoying the icy cement beneath him, Harry held his questions until he’d climbed into one of the taxi’s waiting outside the station.  He passed the skeptical driver a few twenty pound notes and gave an address near the Leaky Cauldron.

Once they were moving, with the road noise and the quietly playing radio covering up his quiet hissing, Harry inquired, “ _Basilisk?  You’ve never told me that before_.”  It sounded terribly familiar to him, but he couldn’t place the word.  He was fairly certain that it wasn’t any muggle breed of snake because he’d searched every book about snakes he could find when he was little and had never been able to identify his friend.  Well, there was also the fact that muggle animals could not, to his knowledge, turn invisible at will.

“ _Great Snake Man told me_ ,” Rhast said dismissively, then went on with pride again.  “ _The basilisk is the King of Serpents, Master.  We do not live in holes in the ground.  We bond with Speakers and they provide for us as we deserve_.”

“ _I’ll have to ask Salazar about it when we get back_ ,” Harry muttered.  He couldn’t help but wonder if all basilisks bonded with speakers.  Surely all speakers didn’t have basilisk familiars.  According to what Salazar told him, James Potter must have been a Speaker, a parselmouth, but he couldn’t believe the historically Light wizard would have bonded with any kind of serpent, much less the king of them.  They weren’t well-regarded in the magical world, but considered a creature of the Dark, which was just stupid, not least because “the Dark” itself was nothing more than propaganda.

After paying the driver, Harry and Rhast made their way quickly through the Leaky Cauldron and directly to Gringotts.  The snake bitched and moaned about the cold the whole way, but wouldn’t hear a word about finding someplace warm and waiting for Harry to get him when he was done, so Harry tried to ignore the whinging.

Harry had arranged this appointment with Grubrok via owl as soon as he’d decided to leave Hogwarts for winter break.  There was no way that he was going to be completely without magic for two and a half weeks.  Being on time for his appointment, it took only a few minutes to make his way down to the same ritual room he’d used during the summer.  After spending a little time under the goblin’s waterfall, Harry made his way back to the muggle world, less the Trace, which would have been restored on the train ride back to London. 

Once back in the muggle world, he stopped to do a little shopping.  He got himself a proper coat and a new scarf, gloves, and hat.  He had his school scarf, of course, but he’d prefer that anyone with any knowledge of the magical world wasn’t able to identify him as a Hogwarts student at a glance, so that scarf would be staying in his trunk with his school robes during break.

His last stop was a grocer to stock up on the most perishable food items that didn’t survive the term, such as milk and eggs.

Finally, he settled into a nearby park, setting up his Abode amidst some bushes and crawling inside.  He was, by that point, both exhausted and starving.  He hadn’t thought to pack a lunch for the train in all the chaos of getting ready to go.  It had taken him forever to properly learn the spell for copying books, so he’d had very little time to actually copy the ones he wanted to take with him.  Since there was absolutely no way he was going to eat any of the candy they offered as sustenance on the train, it had left him suffering through the first real hunger pangs he’d experienced since leaving the Dursleys and he did not care for it at all.

That’s why he whipped himself up a pair of sandwiches with a tall glass of icy cold milk despite his exhaustion.  It wasn’t until he was pleasantly stuffed that he crawled into the lovely double bed and tried not to shiver as Rhast wove his chilly body through and around Harry’s limbs. 

It eventually occurred to him to cast a warming charm on his blanket and he was finally able to fall asleep.

* * *

 

**23 December 1991**

The day before Yule, Harry made his way back to Diagon Alley.  Rhast followed, of course, swathed in warming charms and determined that it was his duty to protect Harry.  Considering how many people would probably love to see the Boy-Who-Lived not living anymore, Harry didn’t have anything against the protectiveness, nor was he inclined to discourage it.  He didn’t spend long.  He made one stop at Madam Malkin’s to buy a new robe and cloak.  He wanted something dark and concealing, so he made sure to get an extra-deep hood on the cloak.

His other stop was at a cosmetic shop.  There were a pair of witches working there doing hair and makeup, but Harry was interested in the other part of the shop.  The part that sold cosmetic potions and enchanted items as well as spell books and a selection of magazines, including the popular Witch Weekly.  Disturbingly, the front cover of that particular magazine seemed to be running a story on him.

**_Is Our Savior Camera Shy?_ **

Above that screaming headline was a picture of a green-eyed baby with a cut on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Both alarmed and morbidly curious, Harry cautiously picked up the magazine and flipped to the cover story.  He’d never seen a picture of himself as a baby before.  Come to that, he’d never seen a picture of himself, full stop.  It was like Petunia thought photographic evidence of his existence to be somehow blasphemous, the way she’d gone out of her way to ensure he didn’t end up in their pictures even by accident.  When pictures were taken at his primary school, he’d always been absent those days.  Admittedly, though, Harry thought that probably had more to do with the fact that his rags would stand out all the more when everyone else was made up to look their best.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that someone had apparently snapped a picture of him _after_ his parents died and _before_ he was shoved off with the Dursleys.  It was the only way to explain the picture on the cover, and it was certainly a wizarding photo going by the way the baby kept blinking his bright green eyes and looking around.

The story didn’t merit enough of his attention to read properly but he did skim through it to gain the general gist.  Apparently, they were lamenting the fact that there was no more recent photo of him available to the public despite the fact that he’d been in the open for nearly half a year already.  He wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or disturbed by the “eye-witness report” of the fact that he was a “quintessential cutie” according to one Annabella Smith who appeared to be one of those idiots who’d mobbed him in the Leaky Cauldron on his birthday.  The author of the article pointed out that he was spotted wearing glasses on that day, yet some “internal source” at Hogwarts had confirmed that he did not wear glasses.  There was speculation that the glasses had been an attempt at concealing his true identity on that trip through the Alley.

With a quiet snort, Harry closed the magazine and returned it to its shelf.  He couldn’t help but feel that he’d actually lowered his I.Q. by reading that drivel.  If he ever _did_ become a Dark Lord, magazines like that were going on his list of things to change to better the wizarding world.  Merlin, were people really so bored that they had nothing better to do than read that nonsense?  Surely, they could spend their time being productive members of society instead.

It did quite neatly illustrate the reason for his presence in that particular shop, though.  While his face was obviously not greatly known at this point – at least, after the age of one – that day in the Leaky Cauldron proved that plenty of people were capable of putting it together if they really looked.  He wasn’t entirely sure which frightened him more at this point, people looking to kill the Boy-Who-Lived or the sort of idiots who actually liked reading crap like that article.

After reading that, he ended up spending probably twice what he otherwise would have in that shop.

He then spent Yule in his Abode, relaxing with Rhast and reading.  He’d been right.  It felt fantastic to be able to fully relax again without worrying about snooping portraits or nosy dorm mates or staring, gossiping classmates or overly watchful professors or creepy headmasters.  Just him and Rhast and Athena and a pile of fascinating books.

He received only one present on Yule.  Curiously, it was from Neville.  The boy had sent him a book.  A shockingly fascinating book entitled, _1001 Spells Hogwarts Used To Teach: What Dumbledore Learned at School that Your Children Won’t._   The gift had come with a brief note.

_Heir Potter,_

_I’m not sure if you celebrate Yule or not, but from what you said on the train, I didn’t think you much liked Christmas.  For that reason, I decided to send your gift for Yule.  I know that you’re always reading extra books, so I thought you might like this one._

_In Your Trust,_

_Heir Longbottom_

The salutation at the end was curious and Harry made a mental note to research formal letter writing and see if he could find exactly what that meant in the wizarding world.  It could have just been a variation of Yours Faithfully or something of the sort, but then again, it could be something important.

The book was both enthralling and annoying as hell.  Had Hogwarts _really_ taught all of this a hundred years ago?  A good bit of it was far too advanced for Harry to manage just yet, but he wanted to learn it all.  Well.  Most of it.  Really, he thought he was unlikely to need to know how to transfigure a housecat into an umbrella.  First, he didn’t like cats, so he couldn’t imagine he’d often have one on hand.  Second, the water repelling charm was a second year spell and this transfiguration was a sixth year spell, so…

Getting the present on Yule, though, _did_ prove that Neville was more clever than he generally let on.  He made a mental note not to forget that and underestimate the boy in the future.

It was the day after Yule that he made his trip back to the magical world.  He used a potion to grow his hair a good six inches longer, then strung a pair of beads into the hair at the nape of his neck.  A tap of his wand and a muttered activation word and one bead turned his hair into a pile of spiral curls and the other made it a light, sandy brown color.  The unruly mop of curls bounced about his head, hanging over his forehead and shading his eyes.  His distinctive emerald eyes were also changed with an absurdly expensive, tiny little bottle of Color Changing Solution specialized for use on irises.  Just one drop in each eye and his light green eyes became dark brown for about a week or until the antidote potion (included) was administered.  The final touch was a layer of concealer over his scar.  The magical ointment was quite handy in that it automatically changed color until it perfectly matched his skin tone whilst covering up the blemish.  The outline of the scar was still visible to close inspection, but combined with his newly longer hair lying over his forehead, he wasn’t worried about it being spotted.

Feeling suitably disguised, he packed his trunks in his pocket as always and hopped a bus to the vicinity of the Leaky Cauldron.  Busses were generally more comfortable because he was able to blend in with other passengers.  He always felt terribly singled out in the back of a taxi.  Also, it was easier to chat with Rhast without anyone noticing.  People didn’t tend to pay much attention to other people on a bus.

When he reached the Leaky Cauldron, he popped into the loo and changed his muggle clothes for the new black robe and cloak he’d picked up yesterday.  He couldn’t help but smirk at himself in the mirror.  Despite his damnably miniscule height, he looked basically nothing like himself between the potions and the outfit.  He was willing to bet he could run into Neville or Hermione in the Alley and not be recognized.

With his valuables tucked safely into a sealed inner pocket in his robe, Harry made his first foray into Knockturn Alley with Rhast close on his heels.  On Salazar’s advice, he’d timed his visit so that he was arriving after supper.  According to the painting, who’d heard it from Tom, Knockturn Alley didn’t come alive until evening, and then it would be bustling full-force until dawn.  Half the shops weren’t even open during the day and those that were showed only a token selection of their stock.  Not many did business down this Alley during the day unless they were the rare Light wizard wandering down in need of something useful that most of their kind disdained or someone with an appointment.

Harry kept his shoulders loose and his gait confident, hoping he’d look like he belonged.  He only made it a couple dozen meters into the narrower Alley before he found himself set upon by a hag.  She was selling a selection of fingernails – whole fingernails – both human and creature on a large tray, and she stepped right into Harry’s personal space, yammering about her wares and eyeing him like a tasty morsel.  Looking rather like the cartoon version of an evil witch – green-tinted skin covered in warts and moles and sores and yellow, jagged teeth – she leaned down to put her hideous face right in his.  Her breath should probably be classified nearly as dangerous as a dragon’s, he really could not help but notice as he leaned away from her and fumbled in his robe pocket for his wand.

The hem of his new robe caught the back of his wand and a wrinkled, scabby hand clamped around his wrist, preventing him from drawing it properly.

“Now, now, sonny.  You wouldn’t want to threaten a poor old lady like me, would you?” she crooned, followed by a sound halfway between a giggle and a cackle that frankly sounded positively mad.

“Poor you may be, but a lady you are not,” Harry hissed in her ugly face.  “Now, unhand me, crone, or I will remove your hand the painful way.”  He could feel Rhast at his side, awaiting his word to bite the Hag, but Harry really would rather avoid his familiar outing himself in the middle of the street by killing some wretched cretin.

Despite the fact that she was nearly twice his size, she must have believed him because she dropped his hand with a frightened hiss and scuttled back into the shadow of an awning.

Harry stared after her for a moment before scanning the Alley for any further threats.  He found a lot of people and creatures looking at him but they were all keeping their distance.  With an irritable huff, he stuffed his wand back into the pocket made for it and made a mental note to buy a good wand sheath before a situation like that got him killed.  When he resumed his trek down the Alley, Rhast was just a bit closer to him.

It only took another minute in the Alley to figure out his mistake.  He’d purchased his robe and cloak new just a few days ago.  The vast majority of the occupants of the Alley were dressed in little more than rags.  Even the nicer clothes looked well used.  He’d have blended in much better if he’d shopped at a secondhand store.  The outfit he was wearing had cost him a mere ten galleons with the charms to allow them to grow a couple sizes with him.  He hadn’t thought anything of spending it given his fortune, but it was making him stand out here.

Silently cursing his oversight, he decided to stop at a secondhand shop before his next venture, but he wasn’t going to go back now.

He kept a closer eye on the people around him after that.  One or two looked like they were thinking about approaching him but a hard glare made them hesitate long enough to make his way passed them.

After walking for a while, he located a bookstore.  The shop did not seem to have a name.  Just a sign hanging over the door with a picture of an open book with a bound scroll lying across the pages.

Inside, Harry found a room roughly twice the size it appeared from the outside.  There was a shining mahogany counter against the wall to the right.  The man behind the counter looked around sixty.  He was wearing dark brown and gray robes of a quality around the same as those Harry was wearing.  The man looked up from the book he was reading and his brow drew down slightly as he looked at the boy.  Then his hazel eyes flitted down Harry’s outfit and back up.  When he spoke, his tone was neutral, “Are you looking for something specific, good sir?”

“Just browsing,” Harry replied curtly.  He could practically feel his familiar relaxing in the sudden warmth behind him.

The man nodded and seemed to go back to his reading though Harry could feel the eyes following him back into the warren of tightly packed shelves.

Well, there was one upside to wearing decent robes, he had to admit.  To a shopkeeper, he had to look like he could actually afford to buy something, which would surely make him a much more welcome customer.

Browsing the wares for quality books was a rather different experience.  Salazar had given him a lecture on the written word in the wizarding world last week when he’d mentioned a desire to explore Knockturn Alley.

Unlike in the muggle world, books here did not have handy copyright dates and other such useful information universalized inside.  They didn’t have publishing houses here, either.  Instead, there were distributers, who worked in creating the physical books and copying the material into them, but their main purpose was, as expected, distribution.  They had contacts with booksellers who would be more likely to buy from a trusted distributer than any idiot capable of casting the right spells for copying an unprotected book.  Distributers guaranteed that the work wasn’t stolen and provided certain facts about the work, such as when it was written, etc.

The wizarding world hadn’t needed the printing press to mass produce books, after all, and they’d been doing it for sixteen millennia in one form or another.

The process probably wasn’t quite as neat and clean as the muggle variant, but it worked when there was magic to ease the way.  If you wanted more information about a book, you needed a codex of distributers and their clients.  These books were automatically updated quarterly and they were easy enough to come by, but even with them, one had to be careful to avoid buying books that were printed with the proper author and title, but without the correct content, which was a relatively common scamming method for the unwary buyer.  Top name booksellers, like Flourish and Blotts, checked to make sure they didn’t sell that kind of trash, but when you were looking in private, secondhand shops in search of older, rarer books, it was a very real concern.

He spent an hour or a little more perusing the books.  Those that looked interesting, he scrutinized for authenticity.  It wasn’t that difficult, with magic, to make a book appear antique when it was not, but Salazar had taught him what to look for in spotting the fakes.  For example, truly aged books tended to be weak in the binding whereas artificially aged books did not.  There was also the language.  Modern English was not very old.

He ended up with three books in modern English and two in Latin – which he was learning relatively quickly thanks to Salazar’s rather demanding tutelage.  The books looked interesting and all of the sort that weren’t quite banned, but also not something a “respectable” bookseller would dare openly sell in Britain.

The shopkeeper eyed him somewhat suspiciously as he tallied up the books, tucking them into a gray cloth bag as he went.  “That’ll be twenty-five galleons,” he announced expectantly when he was done, clearly skeptical that Harry could provide it.

Carefully _not_ rolling his eyes, Harry reached into his robe and coin purse without actually removing it from the pocket.  He fished out a handful and counted them, then did it once more to accumulate the requested sum.

The man was eyeing him with open curiosity by the time he was done, but Harry ignored him.  He wished that he’d managed to learn a shrinking charm, but he hadn’t thought to try it until a few days ago and it was a third-year spell.  It seemed like it always took him at least a week to learn any spell above his year level.  Sometimes it took several.  The spell used to copy books had taken more than three weeks for him to get down.  It was _incredibly_ frustrating.

“Can you shrink that for me?” he asked the shopkeep instead.

The man just nodded and twisted his wrist, causing his wand to jump out of his sleeve and right into his grasp.

Harry’s eyes widened as he watched the man murmur the spell quietly and shrink down the bag and its contents easily.  “Can you tell me where I could get a wand sheath like that?” he couldn’t help but ask as he put the bag in his pocket.  He’d thought of buying a sheath so that he could wear his wand under his sleeve, but he hadn’t realized they made them to jump out like that.  It would make it so much faster and easier to get his wand into his grasp if he was in trouble.  He seemed to find himself “in trouble” with disturbing frequency, so it would be a good investment in his survival.

The man stared at him briefly before giving a small nod.  He then gave directions to a shop a good ways further down the Alley, on the corner of something called the Dame’s Walk off Grindelwald Square.  Harry left the bookshop feeling rather impressed by the bollocks it must have taken to name something in Britain after the former Dark Lord that had terrorized so much of Europe before being taken down by Britain’s own hero, Dumbledore.

The evening was bleeding toward night, now, and the Alley was really beginning to come alive.  Virtually every window along the Alley was alight.  Music and laughter wafted through the street from numerous buildings.  Somewhat ironically, the street seemed considerably more welcoming and less ominous as the night progressed than it had done earlier.

After a few more minutes of walking, he found his way to Grindelwald Square, which was bustling with business.  A wide variety of people and some creatures and halfbreeds were hawking wares to anyone who glanced at them for more than a second.  Most of them were dressed poorly enough that it was unlikely they made a lot of money that way.  The majority of the buildings around the square had signs displaying their business and their doors thrown open despite the cold night air.  He suspected there was a spell that kept the warmth in and the cold out.

Dame’s Walk drew his attention well before he saw the street sign painted at the corner.

Women of the Night and their male counterparts lined the street in a variety of alluring clothing that must have built in warming charms, calling out to passersby and trying to tempt them to enter the brothel along the street to which they belonged.  There appeared to be a number of brothels in competition there.  Harry probably wasn’t quite as discreet as he’d have liked in his observation of them judging by the way some of them winked at him.  A few even propositioned him when he drew near, which he found mostly embarrassing, though a little bit funny.  It was hard not to stare though.  He’d never in his life seen people dressed like that.  Most of them were good-looking, too.

He classified the experience as an exercise in personal awareness.  It was rather enlightening, after all, to note that he couldn’t help staring somewhat longer at the males than the females.  Some of them were barely older than him.  It confirmed what he’d been suspecting about himself since he’d stumbled across those two boys snogging in the library at the start of term.

When he managed to tear his eyes away from the skin on display, he located the building he was seeking on the corner next to the where Dame’s Walk met Grindelwald Square.  Happily, most people in the square didn’t seem to pay any attention to him as he made his way to the shop with a pair of crossed wands on the sign over the door.  He was beginning to suspect that shops down here just didn’t have names.  Every place seemed to have these signs with descriptive pictures, but he’d not seen one written name on any shop or inn or pub he’d passed beyond the first hundred meters into the Alley.

Inside, the shop was almost alarmingly small.  Or rather, narrow.  There was clearly no expansion charm on the width of the room but there must have been on the length because it might have gone back a kilometer by how it looked.  Rows of shelves containing small boxes stretched back into the distance, but it was clear that the customers were meant to remain in the small rectangle of space between the front door and the sales counter.  There were a pair of beat-up old wooden chairs that he assumed were for those waiting and a wall covered in what looked, at a glance, to be licenses or permits of some kind.  What made it legal for him to sell wands, perhaps?

Rhast rubbed his chilled body against Harry once the door was fully closed and Harry cast a discreet warming charm at the snake as the other must have been wearing off.

“What do you want?” was the greeting he got when a man entered the room through a door that would have exited into the pub next door, though going by the lack of music and rowdy voices coming from it, he was betting that there were more expansion charms or something of the sort going on here.

“A wand sheath,” Harry replied, sensing that this man wasn’t in the mood to waste time.

The man gestured impatiently to the wall where a few varieties of sheaths were displayed.  They seemed to be suited to the ankle, thigh, belt, or wrist.  “Seven sickles,” the man demanded.

“Um,” Harry muttered uncertainly, because surely an enchanted sheath could not be a mere seven sickles, “I was actually looking for an enchanted sheath.  One that can kick your wand out into your hand when you want to draw it?”

The man eyed him for a long moment before huffing.  “Tha’s five galleons, kid.”

“That’s fine,” Harry assured him.  “I have the money.”

The man eyed him suspiciously, but just grunted as he leaned down to reach under the counter.  He was up a moment later with the complicated strip of leather.  “Wrist sheath.  Extra small,” he said with an ugly leer at Harry’s small stature that he really didn’t appreciate at all.  “It’s enchanted with a retrieval spell that responds to the will of your magic.  Want it to be in your hand and it will come.  Can take a bit of practice to get the hang of it.  Five galleons.”

The description of the enchantment was said mechanically, clearly something he’d repeated many times.  The demand for galleons was almost a challenge.

As he’d done in the bookshop, Harry drew the money from his pouch without taking it out of his pocket.  He put the coins on the counter and made sure to snatch up his merchandise before the man could get the coins in hand.  There wasn’t anything about this man that said honorable or trustworthy to Harry.  He then turned and left without a word.

It wasn’t his bloody fault that some nine-year-olds were taller than him.  It _wasn’t_!  Bloody Dursleys.  All those years of never having enough to eat… that must have been the cause.  He was sure he’d have heard about it if either of his parents had been as tiny.  Someone wouldn’t have been able to resist making the comparison.  Just like he’d heard a million times that he had his mother’s eyes and his mother’s talent in Charms and his father’s knack for transfiguration and his ease on a broom.  It was irritating.  It was like Harry could never do anything and be credited because he was just that good.  No, it had to be inherited from people stupid enough to get themselves killed barely into adulthood.  Stupid enough to leave their kid without any proper guardian.

Merlin, he hated his parents.  He hated when people compared him to them.

Thinking about his parents had him scowling harshly all the way back out of Knockturn Alley.  That might have been why he was able to get all the way out without anyone approaching him.  Or maybe they were all just busy with other things.  Either way, he was glad when he’d made it back to the Leaky.  A quick stop in the loo to change back into muggle clothes and Harry hailed a taxi back to the area in which he was staying.  He preferred busses but it was late and cold and he didn’t want to make Rhast sit at the bus stop and wait.

He had the taxi drop him in a residential area near the park he’d chosen for the week.  The man wouldn’t ask questions if he appeared to be going home, but he might if he dropped Harry at a park.  With his nice new coat and matching hat, gloves, and scarf, Harry really didn’t look like someone without a home.

Of course, he _did_ have a home, he remembered as he ducked down an alley between houses and crossed a street into his park.  He had a home that he could carry around in his pocket, which was the very best kind.  He could take it with him wherever he went.

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

**25 December 1991**

When Christmas day rolled around, Harry took his time making and eating breakfast, took an extra-long shower, then settled down on his sofa with his Gringotts’ mail chest in front of him.  He highly suspected that he was going to get a _lot_ of presents from people he’d never met before.  If people sent him things on a daily basis, it would make sense that he’d get a lot more on a holiday based on gift giving.

It was a relic of the Dursleys, he was sure, but he couldn’t help the way his heart beat a little faster and he reflexively smiled every time he received a gift.  Even things for which he had absolutely no use.  The fact of the matter was that those things were now _his_.  And _sure_ he could probably buy most of them for himself if he was so inclined.  That wasn’t the point.  The point was that it was a present.  And it was for him.  He _knew_ that it didn’t make all that much sense rationally, which is why he was sure the Dursleys were at fault.  He hadn’t studied a lot of psychology, of course, but he’d read a few sort of introductory books about the subject and he knew that he was messed up.  Anyone with half a brain that really knew him would know that.

Which might have been why he took such pains to ensure that no one got to really know him.

Not that that mattered all that much at the moment.  He was just stalling.  He wasn’t completely sure if he was drawing out the anticipation and therefore the enjoyment of his first ever Christmas morning that he would receive real presents or if he was just instinctively avoiding a situation that inspired emotions that made him uncomfortable.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

With that in mind, he leaned forward and spoke the parseltongue password.  It was “mail”.  And, yes, that wasn’t the most original password, but if a fraction of what he’d read on the subject was true, then parseltongue was a very rare gift.  Add to that the fact that no one knew he was a parselmouth and would therefore have no reason to try to guess parseltongue passwords, he figured he was decently covered.  Really, if Voldemort wanted to read his mail, he’d have bigger things to worry about than his password being easily discovered.

Luckily, the mail trunk was magically expanded.  Also, he was pretty sure that more mail was being added via the enchantment as he emptied it.  He had to take a break come lunchtime, and it took him a few hours more to get through everything he was sent.  He wondered if it had always been like this.  How many thousands of galleons worth of gifts had Dumbledore stolen from him?  It burned something awful, the memory of how desolate and alone and unloved and unwanted he’d felt every Christmas and birthday for the last ten years when he could have been rolling in enough presents to make all of Dudley’s combined gifts from his entire life seem pitiful.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.  Yes, he hated Dumbledore.  Getting mad wasn’t going to help anything.  Just as he’d done with the Dursleys for so very many years, Harry channeled his rage into the semi-constructive habit of fantasizing the most creative ways of pulling the man apart one tiny piece at a time. 

He pictured with as much detail as he could manage just exactly what his face would look like covered in blood and contorted in agony.  He imagined the way his screams would ring in Harry’s ears as they gradually became more and more hoarse until he was no longer able to scream properly at all because he’d shredded his own vocal chords.  He imagined the man’s bright red blood flowing from his body – not too fast.  Wouldn’t want him to die quickly.  No, it would be slow.  Tiny rivulets trickling from places that the skin had been shaved away one layer at a time.  Where the fingernails had been ripped away from the nail beds.  Finally, he imagined the way those brilliant blue eyes would dim with defeat when he finally came to terms with the fact that he could not escape.  He could not talk or demand his way out.  He could not even hasten his death.  He could do nothing but continue to endure all the agony Harry wished to inspire until he finally, _finally_ at long last, was allowed the sweet reprieve of death.

With a contented sigh and a small smile, Harry promised himself that one day, it would no longer be mere fantasy, and he turned back to his tasks.

Among the piles of gifts from shop owners, politicians, inventors, and common citizens, Harry did also receive gifts from people that actually knew him.  Most of the students in his year at Hogwarts had sent him something – at least a bit of candy.  The students that he had personally assisted in some manner gave better gifts, but nothing was actually personal.  How could it be when he went to such trouble to ensure that no one actually knew anything personal about him?

There was one exception today.  It was from Hermione, and it was… somewhat concerning.

It was, not surprisingly, a book.  But it wasn’t a book about magic or the magical world at all, which was considerably more surprising.  It was actually a muggle book called _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ by Dale Carnegie.  It was a book about how to manipulate people.  Well, it may have been written with somewhat purer motives, but it could very easily be applied with less pure motives.  It contained some things that Harry already knew and practiced, which just gave him greater conviction that the rest of it was likely worth doing as well.

Some of it was slightly hokey.  For example, to make people like you, it suggested that you must become _genuinely_ interested in people, and make the other person feel important and do it _sincerely_.  He could imagine no possible way in which he could become genuinely interested in the utterly uninteresting majority of the world – or so they seemed from what he’d observed so far.  Nor could he figure out how to sincerely make someone feel important when he didn’t think they were.  He supposed, as an alternative, he’d just have to learn how to fake it well.

The book was fascinating and gave him a lot of good ideas for perfecting his own instinctive techniques for manipulating people.  It was a book that had the potential to make his life easier on many levels – assuming, of course, that he could do the things it suggested.  The troubling part was that Hermione had figured out that he’d want a gift like this.

He set that aside for now.  He’d explore the probable ramifications of Hermione’s annoying insightfulness later. 

Harry had sent out quite a number of gifts, as well, of course.  The Boy-Who-Lived was, obviously, generous along will all of his other more than merely human attributes.  The vast majority of the gifts he’d sent were things that people had sent to him.  Except for the candies he’d sent to a lot of the people he didn’t know well.  Those, he’d bought.  He didn’t even want to think about what people would say if he accidentally regifted a box of cauldron cakes that had been spiked with a love potion by some barmy fan.  Everything edible that he received went immediately into the rubbish bin.  He wasn’t taking any chances with accidentally consuming malign potions.  Yes, the goblins were supposed to weed any of those out, but Harry didn’t feel up to taking chances.  He didn’t like sweets, anyway, which the vast majority of the food items were, and it wasn’t worth it to accidentally poison someone else in the process of giving them away.  He didn’t even want to imagine what the _Daily Prophet_ would have to say about a mess like that.

To Neville, he’d sent a Scribbelous Companion – a journal charmed similar to a magic mirror, so that it could respond to what you write.  They were made to be friendly and encouraging to the writer and he hoped it would help the shy, self-conscious boy to be able to talk out his fears and frustrations with something that wouldn’t judge.  Harry certainly had no use for such an artifact despite the fact that they were very expensive books, nor had he any wish to be the one on the receiving end of Neville’s chatter about his problems.

To Hermione, Harry had sent a gift voucher for two for a day at a wizarding spa, because he didn’t care how much she loved books, she was still a girl.  …and all the decent books he’d been given, he was keeping, thank you very much.  He figured she could take her mum.  Bond, and all that.  He certainly hadn’t been about to use the voucher.

Hermione and Neville had been the only ones to get expensive gifts.  Everyone else had received something nice and generic.

Well, not _everyone_ he supposed.  Draco had gotten an expensive gift, as well.  Harry had sent him a golden hand mirror charmed to give honest, objective commentary in a polite manner.  They were made to help prevent people from making fashion blunders as most personal magical mirrors were charmed to kiss your arse.  Harry hadn’t been able to resist when he’d seen the mirror in the shop where he bought his disguise potions.  Draco’s constant need to look perfect was something of a running joke in the school, but Harry wasn’t sure if the blond boy had any friends capable of telling him what they really thought.

Yes, it was silly, and possibly stupid to get a gift – an _expensive_ gift – for Draco Malfoy when he was supposed to hate him, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.  When he’d seen it, he’d thought of Draco.  And it was the only gift he’d gotten just because he’d wanted to.  He’d been berating himself about the idiotic sentimentality for a boy he didn’t even really know ever since he’d done it, but that hadn’t stopped him from hiring a post owl to send it.

_Stupid mirror…_

Finally, in the last pile, were the gifts that weren’t signed.  A few of them were from “secret admirers”.  A few were sent generically from “The Staff at Flourish and Blotts” or “The Patients of St. Mungo’s Children’s Ward”, the latter had been a collection of hand-drawn “art”, which Harry had carefully stored away in case anyone asked about it later.  The Boy-Who-Lived certainly wouldn’t throw such things away, after all.  And finally…  Finally, there was one last parcel without a sender at all.

The note read:

_Your father left this in my possession before he died.  It is time it was returned to you._

_Use it well._

_A Very Merry Christmas to You_

Upon opening the package, he discovered an Invisibility Cloak.  He’d read about them.  He didn’t know as much as he would like to now that he had one, but he did know that they were expensive.  This was a princely gift.  It was given at Christmas, which lends the illusion of a present, yet the note stated that it was merely a return on a loan.  And why not include a name?  What kind of person would deliberately avoid incurring gratitude for this?  Who wouldn’t want to get to know the Boy-Who-Lived as a friend of his dead father?  Why return the cloak at all?  Harry would have never missed it when he didn’t know it existed.  Even if the individual was entirely altruistic, then surely he would want to get to know his dead friend’s kid, right?

No, nothing about this smelled right.  There _had_ to be a reason someone would have given him this cloak anonymously.  Maybe they were too moral to keep or sell the cloak, but really wanted nothing to do with a kid.  Or _him_ in particular?  That was the best case scenario, and even that smelled funny.

With that determination, Harry tucked it into the corner of his general storage compartment in his school trunk and resolved to avoid it as much as possible until he could figure out more about the situation.  He’d made due this long without being able to turn invisible, after all.  Surely, he could go on surviving in the visible spectrum.  And maybe, in a few years, when he knew more magic and had had a chance to research invisibility cloaks, he could dig it out again.

The rest of the day was spent in the tedious process of writing thank-you notes.

* * *

As Severus had suspected, it had not been difficult at all to find a telephone directory for Surrey and locate _Dursley, Vernon & Petunia_ at _No. 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging_.  From there, an apparation to a part of Surrey with which he was familiar and a call to a taxi company got him to Privet Drive.  He had, of course, foregone his robes in favor of a knee-length overcoat – in black, obviously.  A brief trip behind a tree and he was disillusioned.

He really hadn’t minded the trip as much as he might have.  He’d honestly needed the excuse to get out of the castle anyway.  Albus’ insistence on celebrating ridiculous muggle holidays always made him particularly homicidal, so he avoided them when possible.

Effectively invisible, Severus walked around No. 4, peering in windows until he located the family room.  It was disgustingly cheerful in its Christmas décor.  An evergreen was heavily laden with tasteful and impersonal decorations, garland of red and green and gold ringed the room, and some holiday program was blasting from the telly.  Beneath the tree, and indeed, around it, were heaps of gifts piled upon gifts in bright, gaudy paper and bows.  There was utterly no doubt that this family was quite comfortable in their income.  Certainly, Severus had never received so many gifts from his parents as long as they’d lived as these boys apparently did in a single holiday.

He couldn’t help but sneer as he watched Petunia – uglier than ever with all the curves of a skeleton – make her way into the room with a silver tray bearing three cups of steaming hot chocolate, one of which was literally dripping marshmallows.

He watched as the family settled down in front of the tree.  Petunia and her beast of a husband sipped at their mugs while their swine of a son scooped up the mug overflowing with marshmallows, tipped it to his fat maw, and chugged the entire thing.

“I want another one,” he bellowed out before turning his small, beady eyes to the mountains of gifts.

Severus watched, feeling considerably disturbed, as Petunia immediately went to fulfill the demand of the child who most certainly did _not_ need to be imbibing more sugar, and the boy set upon the gifts with glee while the massive man watched with a disconcerting amount of _pride_ – of all things.

There was, of course, one significant problem with this entire scene.  That being that Potter seemed to be missing.  If not for the fact that he recognized Petunia, he’d have thought he had the wrong house or the wrong Dursleys altogether.  Moving around to the next window, Severus paid more attention to the room beyond the holiday decorations and he noticed that there were a large number of photos of the family and of the fat boy, but not even one that could have been Potter at any age.

While the boy continued to make a massive mess of wrappings in his efforts to uncover the _dozens_ of gifts, Severus decided that a closer inspection was necessary.  Moving around to the front door, he cast a silencing charm localized on himself, and then unlocked the door.  Inside, he went upstairs, observing yet more pictures of a family of _three_ along the way.  There were four bedrooms upstairs.  One was obviously the parents’, another very clearly belonging to the fat child with too many possessions.  The next room was, by the bland décor and lack of personal items, a guest room with an eye toward the feminine.  The final room upstairs looked to be storage for the spoiled boy’s extra toys.  Most of them were broken, yet not discarded for some reason.

There was no sign of Potter having lived here at all.

Moving back downstairs, Severus explored the rest of the house – he even peeked into the cupboard under the stairs – there was no sign of anyone else having ever lived here.  There certainly wasn’t anyone else here now.

By the time he was done with his inspection, the gift opening had concluded.  Vernon parked his large behind in front of the telly.  The child commenced playing with his new toys, being extremely loud and obnoxious though both parents ignored it.  Petunia moved into the kitchen and began cooking breakfast. 

Severus gave the situation a few moments of thought.  There was obviously something very wrong with this situation.  Not only was Potter not here on Christmas morning, but there was no evidence that he had ever been here.  Perhaps the boy had been living elsewhere.  Maybe he’d run away to live with friends or maybe Albus had lied and Potter had never been here at all.  There was one easy way to get his answers and it only required a few spells.  His conscience didn’t even twinge at the thought given the… victim.

With a small smirk, he turned and swept into the kitchen.  He hit Petunia with a body bind just as she turned to see who had entered, then put a small locking spell on the door to ensure a few minutes of privacy.  A quick step forward and he caught her before the teetering woman could fall face-first to the floor.  He tipped her easily back and looked into her eyes.

The muggle had no mental defenses or even discipline.  He barely had to try at all and he was in her memories.  He searched for anything connected to Harry Potter and was immediately inundated with memories.  Obviously, she’d spent quite a bit of time with the boy.  He went back to the first memories of the boy.

A basket on a doorstep and a letter from Albus, not so subtly threatening that her entire family would likely be tortured and murdered if she didn’t accept the protection offered by housing the boy.

He moved forward from there, watching in bits of memories laden with emotions.  He watched as resentment toward the boy foisted on them grew into bitterness and then hatred.  He watched a toddler smacked around the head enough times it was a miracle the boy hadn’t gotten brain damage.  He saw a boy of three stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs when he wouldn’t stop crying after a nightmare.  He saw that cupboard become the boy’s bedroom with a tiny crib mattress stuffed into the bottom and the same ratty blanket that had been in the basket Albus had left.

He watched a child of four expected to do chores a boy twice his age could not manage.  He watched the same child learn fast between punishments.  He saw spankings on a bare bottom progress to a doubled-over belt on the bottom.  Then the belt moved onto the back as well.  Then there was a riding crop on his back and sometimes his butt and legs.

He saw Harry Potter grow colder.  Around the age of six, the boy’s obvious attempts to please his guardians changed.  Instead of seeking approval, he began seeking only to avoid punishments.  His face grew harder.  His eyes grew colder.  Petunia began to actually fear the way a child of seven would look at her and her family.  Instead of placating the boy, she grew harsher, seeming to think she could crush his spirit entirely.  And they tried.  Merlin, did they try.

Blessedly, there was no sign of sexual abuse, but every other conceivable form of abuse was apparent.

Her last memories involving Potter included the invasion of Hogwarts’ letters and their mad attempt to escape them.  Potter seemed curious about the letters, but he never made any overt attempt to claim one.  Finally, Hagrid tracked them to that ratty little house on the sea and confronted them.  Only that idiot would be fool enough to not see the blatant signs of abuse – namely the way Harry’s eyes had tracked the gun Vernon had held as though he wholly expected the first shot to go through him.

When they got up the next morning, Harry and Hagrid were gone.  That was the last time they had seen the boy.  He’d never come back from that trip and when a few weeks had passed with no sign, they’d celebrated – literally _celebrated_ – being free of the _freak_.  Then Petunia had cleaned out the cupboard under the stairs, scrubbing at the floor and walls as though the boy might be contagious.  They’d thrown away everything of Harry’s that had been left behind and they’d happily proceeded to pretend that he’d never existed.

When the neighbors asked after their nephew, they answered that the boy had been taken in by some members from the other side the family who had finally turned up.  Everyone in the neighborhood seemed satisfied to see the boy gone.  Apparently, he had quite the reputation as a deviant, though Petunia’s memories confirmed that she had spread most of those rumors herself.

Severus drew out of Petunia’s mind and his fist collided with her face before he’d even processed the need to hurt her.  She was lucky that he was as controlled as he was or he’d have used his wand instead of his fist.  She was unconscious before she hit the floor and Severus shook his head in disgust as he removed the body bind.  He used his boot to turn her enough to see her face and was quite pleased to see that her nose was certainly broken.  After a quick obliviate to remove himself from her memory and make her think she’d merely slipped and hit her head on the way down, he left the house as unobtrusively as he’d entered and promptly apparated back to Hogwarts.

First, he needed to question Hagrid to see if Potter had said anything to him about going anywhere except back to the Dursleys when they’d parted ways.  Severus rather suspected not, but there was no point in neglecting an obvious source.  Particularly not when Hagrid was so disgustingly easy to question.

Once he was done with that, he was going to have to try to figure out where Harry would have gone if not home.  It would be infinitely easier if he could just legilimize Hagrid, but being a half-giant, he was naturally resistant to most magic imposed on him.  Even standard healing spells would have little effect, which is why there were spells of that sort specifically designed for half-giants.  Sadly, there was no means of legilimency known to work well on them.  Well, it wasn’t as if he _couldn’t_ get into the man’s mind.  He just couldn’t do it without being extremely obvious about it and possibly damaging Hagrid’s mind the process.

Not that it would be entirely likely that anyone would notice the difference…

Severus didn’t doubt for a moment that Harry was better off almost anywhere than with the Dursleys, but that didn’t mean that he was _safe_.  And he didn’t dare tell Albus.  He was virtually certain that the old man would immediately send Harry back to the Dursleys given the chance.  No, if Albus didn’t know that Harry was missing, Severus would not be the one to enlighten him.  As far as he was concerned, the boy was safer on his own than he was under Albus thumb if the old man was going to send him right back to his abusers.

Severus just hoped that the blasted boy was somewhere safe and warm over the holiday.  He could no longer even resent his concern for the boy.  Apparently, he was the only adult alive who _did_ worry about Harry Potter.

He did find himself wondering, as he crossed the grounds toward Hagrid’s hut, just how the boy had managed to lie about looking forward to seeing his relatives when he must hate them so much.  Unless the boy had _known_ to lie without lying, in which case he’d arranged the scenario in his mind in such a way that he was thinking about some situation in which he’d actually like to see them.

Merlin, how could the boy possibly be that clever?  How could he know so much about magic and the wizarding world if he’d truly only known of it for half a year?  Judging by the memories he’d viewed today, he couldn’t really doubt the boy’s ignorance.  He’d seen his very muggle childhood.

He could only imagine then that the child was receiving coaching from someone.  How else could Harry even know about the mind arts, much less how to counter them? That boy had entirely too many Slytherin traits for a Gryffindor.

He heaved a sigh as he approached Hagrid’s hut and transfigured his coat into robes to minimize the stupid questions he’d have to endure.  Bracing himself to deal with the bumbling fool and his excessive cheerfulness, Severus knocked on the door, smothering a sneer when that insipid hound began baying.

So much for the rest of his holiday.

* * *

 

**5 January 1992**

When he made his way into King’s Cross Station to return to Hogwarts, Harry found himself almost wishing he didn’t have to go.  The holiday had been so wonderfully peaceful.  He didn’t look forward to returning to the constant scrutiny he endured at the school.

Of course… he _did_ miss the library.  And Salazar a little bit.  He really couldn’t hope to learn a fraction as much through self-study as he could from the ancient portrait.  The classes were mostly annoying.  With the exception of Potions and Herbology, he had little doubt that he could master most of his classes without actually bothering to attend them or wade through writing dozens of redundant essays.  But if that was the price he had to pay to be able to use the library and take lessons from Salazar then it was unquestionably worth it.

He had just passed through the barrier and begun to make his way toward the train when he heard an enthusiastic, “Harry!”  By the time he’d managed to track the source of the call on the crowded platform, he was being nearly bowled over by an unnervingly excitable muggleborn.

Harry stiffened at the feel of arms wrapped tightly around him, her body flush against his own.  He fought the very real urge to body bind her and toss her under the train.  His skin positively _crawled_ at every point of contact.  It was the first hug he’d ever received and he found that he _hated_ it.  Gods, why would anyone willingly subject themselves to this?  Or touching each other at all, really.  Why couldn’t people just be content in their own skin and keep it away from each other?

Well, he supposed that the human race would have gone extinct a long time ago if people refused to touch each other at all, but surely casual touch was unnecessary.

Mindful of the fact that he was on a busy platform surrounded by people that were all now looking at him thanks to her shrieking his name, he shoved her away from him as gently as possible and forced a tight smile onto his face.

“Let’s board the train, yeah,” he said quickly, taking up his trunk and starting away immediately.

Hermione looked a little hurt, but she said nothing as she followed him onto the train.  They closed themselves into an empty compartment and Harry stowed his trunk while she put up hers.  Her parents had paid for a permanent featherweight charm on her otherwise mundane trunk, she had confided in him on the ride to London, because they knew that she’d fill it with so many books that no one would ever be able to lift it otherwise.

“Are you okay?” she asked hesitantly as he took his seat and opened his book.

He looked at her stonily as she slowly lowered herself onto the bench opposite him, a book clutched in her hands.  “Don’t hug me again.  Ever,” he said as neutrally as possible.  “I don’t like to be touched.  And, yes, that is a secret.”

She reddened and sunk lower into her seat.  “Sorry.”  Her voice was very small.

“It’s fine,” he forced himself to say.

She bit her lip and opened her book.

Harry likewise turned his attention to reading, though he did notice that, in the time he read three pages, she turned not one and she was usually almost as fast a reader as he was.

Neville arrived a few minutes later.  Thankfully, he felt no need to touch anyone as he stowed his trunk and sat down with a book of his own – about Herbology, it seemed.  The boy glanced between the two of them as though he could sense the tension that Hermione was still radiating, but he didn’t comment on it.

“How was your holiday?” Neville asked after a minute.

Hermione latched onto the subject with zeal and began describing her trip to Italy in exhaustive detail that Neville listened to politely.

Harry kept half an ear on them, following the explanation enough that it wouldn’t be foreign to him later, but most of his attention drifted to his own considerations.  Namely, just how awful that hug had felt.  He recalled the scene from the mirror for the millionth time and he recalled the way the boy who looked like Draco had been hanging on him.  He’d seemed to like that.  Of course, it may have been that he desired to be able to enjoy that when he never actually could.

It bothered him a little bit to realize that the Dursleys had ruined him in yet another way.

He _knew_ that he had no interest in being touched casually, but for the reaction to be so strong…  It was difficult to describe how her touch had made him feel.  He supposed disgust would be the most succinct.  It had felt entirely disgusting to be touched by her.

But an inability to tolerate touch…  That seemed distressingly like a _weakness_.  He didn’t care for discovering personal weaknesses, though he knew that ignoring them would only make him weaker.  After all, a weakness could not be overcome until it was acknowledged.

Was it actually just _him_ that caused the feeling though?  Was it all in his messed up head?  Or was it more _magical_ than _psychological_?  Hermione was a muggleborn, after all.  Would it feel different to be touched by someone whose magic was truly their own?

He wasn’t entirely sure that it was worth it to feel like that again just to test the theory.

He gave a moment of thought to touching Neville, just to see, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.  Not so soon after having that horrid sensation wrap itself around him with Hermione’s unwanted affection.

“What about you, Harry?” Hermione’s timid question interrupted his ruminations.  “What did you do over the holiday?” she clarified when he looked up from his book.

Harry shrugged minutely, “Did some shopping.  Explored London a bit.  Mostly, I stayed in and did some reading.”

“Did you like my gift?” she asked hopefully.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, “It was quite an interesting read.  You did get my thank-you note?”

She smiled hugely and nodded her head rapidly.  “Yes, I got it.  And thank you so much for my gift.  Mum loved it.  We went together yesterday and it was ever so lovely.”

Harry hummed noncommittally and was just about to go back to semi-ignoring her when she was cut off by the rasp of the compartment door sliding open.

Harry lifted an eyebrow curiously when he saw that their visitor was none other than Draco Malfoy, his cronies flanking him from behind, as always.  Harry was surprised the blond boy had been brave enough to come back after the way he’d gone running last time.  After just a brief pause, Draco stepped into the compartment and closed the door behind him, leaving his henchmen outside.

“Can we help you, Malfoy?” Harry asked politely enough.

The other boy stared at him for a long moment, his expression vaguely frustrated.  Then he glanced at the two on the other bench and his nose crinkled as though he’d smelled something foul.  Finally, he seemed to steel himself.  He straightened his back even further and lifted his chin, looking at the wall over Harry’s head as he spoke stiffly, “I came to thank you for the gift, Potter.  It was… unexpected, but appreciated.”

Harry stared at Draco, feeling unnerved and intrigued and excited and a little bit scared all at once.  There was no doubt at all in his mind that Draco didn’t want to be here.  In fact, he rather doubted those were even his words.  He’d been forced to offer his gratitude in person, and there was only one person that Harry could imagine forcing Draco to do anything against his will.  Lucius Malfoy, the boy’s idol.

Harry’s mind spun with the possibilities that had just opened before him.  Lucius had seen the gift as an olive branch, and he’d accepted it.  He wanted to forge a friendship between them.  Or he wanted Harry to think that that was what he wanted.  But really, Harry had never met the man.  Odds were good that he would be underestimated.  Adults always underestimated the intelligence of children.  Of course, most children deserved such slight estimation, so it wasn’t surprising.

This could be the beginning of an alliance with the Malfoy family.  It may be his last chance at that, as well.  Harry had already thrown an offer of friendship back in Malfoy’s face once.  He highly suspected that a third offer would never come if he disdained this one.  It was clear that that was what the boy expected to come of this.  But could he afford to publically befriend the Malfoys?

Harry had had time to better understand the situation since September.  Only a small faction of the population of Wizarding Britain actually thought the Malfoys were “evil”.  Most of that faction was Dumbledore’s lackeys and former Gryffindors, Harry had discerned.  Officially, Lucius Malfoy was just one of many unfortunate individuals who had fallen victim to Voldemort’s regime, having been Imperiused and forced to take the Dark Mark.  Salazar had been kind enough to confirm that Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius’ father, had been one of Tom’s closest confidants, which rather suggested that he had ended up a follower and not a victim.

Not that Harry was going to vilify them based on having been Death Eaters.  He didn’t have anything against Voldemort, so it would be rather illogical of him to have something against the man’s followers.

Of course, what he thought wasn’t really the point.  This was about what everyone else would think.  Could the Boy-Who-Lived befriend a Slytherin?  Particularly a Slytherin for whom he had always displayed a considerable dislike?

Well, of course he could.  The Boy-Who-Lived was better than such pettiness, wasn’t he?  He could befriend even his greatest rival.

He let the hint of a smile touch his lips.  The silence was bordering on too long and Draco was beginning to look even more frustrated.  Turning his attention to the Gryffindors, he said politely, “Would you two give us a minute?”

Neville and Hermione exchanged bewildered looks and Hermione looked vaguely betrayed, but, happily, she seemed to be yet too cowed by her blunder on the platform to directly challenge him.  They each closed their books and made their way out of the compartment without a word.

“Please, have a seat, Malfoy,” Harry said once they were alone together.  He was grateful now for the etiquette lessons Salazar had been forcing on him.  He couldn’t use too strict of forms, of course, because he wasn’t about to give Malfoy all of his secrets, but he could use a semblance of them to put the pureblood more at ease.  “I’m glad to know you liked the gift.”

Malfoy sat down, but was staring at him with frustrated confusion.  “Why did you send it?” he blurted.

Harry couldn’t help but think the Slytherin wasn’t all that good of a Slytherin.  He had an appalling lack of subtlety that probably reflected on the fact that his family was nigh on untouchable.  Didn’t make it okay, but Harry supposed he might grow out of it.  “I was raised in the muggle world,” Harry chose to start, ignoring the way the other boy sneered.  “You recall the first day we met, I’m sure.  In Madam Malkin’s.  That was my first day in the Wizarding World.  I knew nothing about it.  My first impressions of it were shaped by Hagrid and by Ron Weasley on the train.”

Draco stiffened further at the mention of Ron and the insinuation toward their second meeting.

“Needless to say, they painted your family in a… an unfavorable light.  Since then, I have learned a great deal about our world and the people in it.  I’ve learned, for example, that Hagrid and the Weasleys are poor choices when one is seeking character references.  I wanted to apologize for the way our second meeting went, and maybe try to start over?”  It was slightly unnerving just how few lies were actually in that.

Draco looked both surprised and somewhat smug by the time Harry had finished his “explanation”.  Harry hadn’t actually considered anything that far when he’d sent the mirror.  He’d just wanted to give it to him, so he had.  This could work out for the best though. 

Draco huffed a small laugh and a smug smile curled his lips, “I told you that some wizarding families were better than others, Potter.”  He hesitated for a moment and then stuck out his hand expectantly.

Harry smirked a bit in reply and swallowed his misgivings about engaging in physical contact as he reached out and grasped the other boy’s hand.  Curiously, it didn’t feel bad, his hand against Draco’s.  It didn’t feel bad at all, really.  He could actually kind of see why people would want to touch each other if that’s what it felt like.  He wondered if it was because he was a pureblood or because he was Draco, the boy that Harry had been _slightly_ obsessed with since that stupid mirror. 

He carefully concealed any reaction as he gripped the warm, dry hand in his own, “It’s Harry,” he corrected.

Draco’s smile turned a bit more genuine as he reciprocated, “Draco.”

The strange moment passed as Draco released his hand and took a step toward the door.

Harry lowered his hand and clenched it into a fist, struggling to categorize what he was feeling about it.  His attention went back to the blonde when he paused and turned back. 

“Why do you hang out with the blood traitor and the mudblood?” he asked as though the question had him painfully perplexed and he just had to know the answer.

Harry rolled his eyes.  “Why do you hang out with Crabbe and Goyle?  Judging by their performance in class, they’re idiots.  They can’t possibly be stimulating conversationalists,” he challenged.

Draco shrugged, “Their families swore fealty to mine like three hundred years ago.  They do what they’re told.”

Harry smiled amusedly at the symmetry.  “Hermione and Neville both owe me a Life Debt.”

Draco blinked and his brow rose.  After a moment, he just nodded and left without another word.

Harry frowned after the other boy and sank down into his seat again, ignoring Hermione and Neville’s return.  He wasn’t sure why he’d told the boy the truth.  That was a disturbing amount of honesty to hand over to a Slytherin with little attachment to him.

“What was that about?” Hermione finally mustered the courage to ask.

Harry shook his head, “We’ve declared a truce, I suppose.”

“What?  Why?” Hermione demanded, clearly aghast at the idea of anyone not hating Draco Malfoy.  “He’s absolutely foul!”

“No more than you,” said Harry bluntly.

Her jaw dropped and her eyes immediately sparkled with tears.

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes.  Merlin, he hated girls!  “My point is that you’re both opinionated and prejudiced, Hermione,” he said firmly before she could start crying or leave in a snit or anything else that would cause him more trouble later.

“I’m not-!”

“You are,” Harry interrupted before her righteous indignation could get much traction.  “You are prejudiced against the Wizarding World in general.”

“I’m not-“

“You _are_ ,” he cut her off again.  “I’ve heard you make a thousand little comments that illustrate your feelings on the matter.  You think the Wizarding World is archaic and stagnant.  You see their traditions as outdated and barbaric.”

“They are,” she muttered petulantly.

“Exactly,” Harry sighed.  “Malfoy’s not that different from you.  He’s prejudiced against muggleborns because they come into the Wizarding World looking down their noses at it.  You go ahead and join the world and expect to be treated equally even as you’re disdaining everything in sight because it’s different from what you’ve always known.  You think yourself _above_ people raised in the Wizarding World because the muggle world is so much more _advanced_.”

“Isn’t it?” she challenged, her chin tilted up defiantly.

“No,” he said bluntly, internally wincing at his harsh tone and scolding himself to be careful.  This was a subject about which he felt strongly and he could easily go overboard.  Hermione, like Draco, was extremely opinionated.  If simply told she was wrong, she was likely to clam up and stubbornly believe what she wanted to believe.  The truth had to be spoon-fed to her in order for her to absorb it.  “You think cars and computers and airplanes make the muggles _advanced_?  Honestly?

“Wizards have been capable of nearly instantaneous travel over thousands of miles for more than six millennia since the portkey was invented.  Prejudice against homosexuals doesn’t exist in the wizarding world because the process of combining genetic material from two individuals of the same sex and forming it into an embryo that can be grown in the uterus of a surrogate was perfected eight _thousand_ years ago.  Cancer doesn’t exist in the Wizarding World because it was _cured_ eight thousand years ago.  Our healers only see it now in muggleborns, and it can be cured with a single potion.  The Wizarding World has been _civilized_ for over twenty thousand years.  We lived in sprawling cities while muggle tribes still followed herds on yearly migrations.”

There was a long moment of silence in the compartment while Hermione stared at him in shock and Harry silently told himself to shut the hell up, already.  The arrogance of the muggleborns just pissed him off, and Hermione was one of the worst.

“The reason that the Wizarding World seems outdated to you is because, over the last three hundred years, since the Statute of Secrecy was established, the Wizarding World has tried to blend into the muggle world.  Bit by bit, they’ve done so, but they’re not very good at keeping up with the constantly changing trends in the muggle world and therefore they _seem_ outdated.  You took one look at them and made up your mind without ever paying attention to the fact that the muggle world’s ‘civilization’ is an _infant_ in comparison.”

There was another drawn out silence before Hermione quietly said, “I thought you said you weren’t racist.”

Harry blinked at her, “What did I say that led you to believe I was racist?  What I just told you were facts.  I don’t hate anyone because of them.”

“You hate the muggleborns for not learning more about the Wizarding World,” she said with certainty.

“Well, if that’s true, then I’m not racist.  It’s not racism to dislike someone because of their actions.  I only dislike the ones who exhibit that behavior.”

“So you admit that you dislike me,” she said, her voice quavering on the point of a sob.

“Hermione, this whole conversation started because I was explaining why I didn’t hate you _or_ Malfoy.  I dislike some of your behaviors and opinions just as I dislike some of his.  Doesn’t mean that I can’t be friendly toward you both.”

Hermione sunk back in her seat, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking both sad and conflicted.  Neville had been quiet through it all and he now looked very thoughtful.  Harry was curious what the pureblood boy thought about that conversation, but not enough to actually ask him, which would certainly result in more conversation.

He already missed the relative solitude of his Abode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (FYI) How to Win Friends & Influence People by Dale Carnegie is a real book, originally published in 1936 and revised in 1981. What I wrote about it in this chapter is not intended as a review of what I think about the book. It’s what I imagine my Harry would think about it if he read it. Personally, I think it’s an excellent read and the world would be a much more pleasant place if everyone were to read it and try out the techniques. (And do note that I stand to gain nothing by endorsing it.)


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

**Friday, 10 January**

Harry took a deep breath and steeled himself for the upcoming confrontation before he raised his fist to knock on the heavy door.  He had easily fallen back into the rhythm of being at Hogwarts, dividing his time between playing the perfect poster boy, attending classes, studying in the library, and studying with Salazar in Slytherin’s library.  All had seemed fine until Snape had kept him after class today and instructed him to return after he’d eaten lunch.  He wasn’t sure what this was about, but given Snape’s track record, he had a guess.

“Enter,” the call came from within and Harry made sure his face was blank and his posture relaxed before opening the door.  He closed the door behind him and tried not to flinch when he heard the lock snap into place and felt a silencing ward settle over it.  That as much as confirmed his fears about the content of the coming discussion.  Snape wasn’t likely to worry about keeping it quiet if he wanted to talk about Harry’s performance in class.

“Sit,” Snape nodded toward the chair in front of his desk.

Harry’s lips compressed as he fought the urge to comment scathingly on being ordered about like a dog, but he did as he was told.  He knew that Snape wouldn’t hesitate to assign him a detention or five and Harry worked hard to avoid detentions.  Not only did the enforced manual labor bring unpleasant reminders of his life with the Dursleys, but he put a high value on his time here at Hogwarts.  If he was going to put up with this place, he was going to get a better education out of it than what the curriculum offered and that meant spending as much time as possible studying, _not_ scrubbing cauldrons or polishing trophies.

“Potter,” Snape said after half a minute’s staring had failed to garner a reaction from his pupil.  “I stopped by Privet Drive over break.  I was somewhat surprised that you weren’t there,” he stated rather mildly.

Harry resisted the urge to gulp or fidget or glare as he took in the fact that Snape had actually gone to Surrey over the holiday to check up on him.  Obviously, this was inconvenient for him and thus extremely annoying.  Objectively, however, he was stunned that the man had gone to such lengths.  This certainly wasn’t the first time that someone had asked questions about his treatment with the Dursleys, but Harry had never seen anyone work so hard for the truth before.  When he was young, a few platitudes from the Dursleys had been enough to shut them up.  When he was older and wiser, the platitudes had come from him and saved him some very memorable beatings, but the would-be Samaritans had always been placated just as quickly.  Despite caring enough to raise the topic, no one actually seemed to _want_ to know the truth if it was bad.

Snape, evidently, was a different creature entirely.  Harry could have used him five years ago – or even two.  At this point, however, the man was just messing things up.

“I was probably at a friend’s house,” Harry shrugged, faking unconcern.

“On Christmas morning?” Snape asked doubtfully.  “I thought you were eager to see your relatives.  Why would you not join them for the happy occasion?”

Harry sighed, letting just a bit of his irritation through, “I hardly see how it’s any of your business, sir.”

Snape’s brow rose skeptically, “I’m your teacher, Mr. Potter.  I’m concerned for your welfare.”  The man didn’t even _try_ to make that sound believable, though Harry sensed that it might actually be the truth.

“And I’ve told you repeatedly that there is no call for concern, sir,” Harry stubbornly pointed out.  “I am very pleased with my life away from this school.”

“Be that as it may, Potter,” Snape said, his ire beginning to leak through into his tone and posture, “I know for a fact that you have not set foot in that muggle house since you learned of the wizarding world.”

“Even if that were true,” Harry scoffed, “I fail to understand how you could possibly know it.”

“Your family told me,” the man said coolly.

Harry couldn’t resist a snort of disbelief at that.  “They didn’t,” he said with certainty.  He was absolutely sure that the Dursleys would never even _spea_ -  His eyes widened suddenly as he realized what must have happened.  He eyed his professor much more warily.  “Using legilimency against a muggle without permission of the Ministry is illegal,” he pointed out cautiously.  He’d learned that months ago when he’d first discovered that it was what Quirrell had been using on him – not that he could prove it.

Snape’s brow quickly drew down and he was definitely looking unhappy now.

Harry stood uneasily, avoiding the man’s eyes now.  “Can I go, sir?” he asked abruptly.

An unpleasant smile turned up Snape’s lips as he too rose from his chair, “It’s not that difficult to get that particular permit, Potter.  You can explain to me where you have been staying or you can explain it to Child Services.”

Harry was decently convinced that the man was lying about the permit being easy to get.  The threat, however, was properly terrifying.  He was struggling to keep himself outwardly calm despite the fact his heart was racing and his chest felt tight, and he couldn’t seem to get quite enough air into his lungs though he wouldn’t let himself start gasping for breath in front of Snape.  Some part of him wondered if he was having a panic attack.

He was at the door, then, though he couldn’t rightly remember crossing the room.  He gripped the handle and pulled, but it was still locked.  He fought the urge to scream and yanked again.  It opened the second time and he fled the room as quickly as he could.

* * *

Severus sighed heavily and sank back into his chair as his door swung shut behind the boy.  He leaned his elbows on his knees and pinched the bridge of his nose hard.  He was extremely disappointed in himself for losing his temper.  Potter excelled at pushing his buttons, evidently without effort.  That, however, did not excuse his abhorrent lapse.

Potter was clearly terrified of Child Services getting involved.  With abuse as severe as he had seen through Petunia’s memories, Severus didn’t doubt that he wasn’t the first one to notice that something was amiss.  It was obvious that everyone else who had done had let the boy down.  Harry probably expected that he’d end up back with the Dursleys or perhaps someone even worse.

He debated going after the boy, but decided that the child was likely to panic even more if Severus cornered him right now.  The best thing he could do would be the give Harry some space and take a calming potion before trying to discuss anything sensitive with him again.

* * *

Harry had no idea how long it had been when he regained awareness of his surroundings.  He wasn’t even really sure how he’d gotten here, though he was pleased to see that he had managed to close himself into a bathroom stall before curling into a fetal ball and succumbing to what he was pretty sure had been a panic attack.  He had no clear memories since leaving Snape’s office, though he did have a vague recollection of walking down a corridor and he thought he was in the boy’s room nearest the Potions Classroom, so with any luck he’d not been seen.

Merlin, he was exhausted.  His whole body ached, his head felt stuffed full of cotton, and he was pretty sure he’d vomited the entire contents of his stomach.  Some of it seemed to have made it into the toilet, but some was on the floor and his trousers.

“Fuck,” he breathed, leaning against the wall and letting his legs and arms fall bonelessly to the floor.  He couldn’t believe he’d actually had a panic attack.  After everything he’d been through in his life, he’d have thought that he’d have had one before if he was susceptible to such things.  It was an appalling weakness.  If he fell to pieces whenever something shocking and frightening happened, he was pretty sure that he’d never live to see adulthood.  He’d already been in potentially mortal danger twice since coming to this school.

Thinking of that, did he really fear Child Services more than he feared a troll intent on killing him?  He’d felt no panic at all when faced with that troll.  He’d been able to think clearly all the way through, even when he was closed in its fist and potentially instants from a sudden and agonizing death.  Threaten him with a foster home though, and he fell apart.

There was likely something disturbing about his psyche in that revelation, but he chose not to examine it at the moment.

He hated this feeling – this _terror_ that filled him at the thought of being consigned to a magical version of the Dursleys.  He knew that there was no guarantee that he’d end up with people like that.  Actually, there was probably a good chance that his new guardians would be perfectly amiable people.  Even best case scenario, though, he’d still be stuck with _guardians_.  Nosy old sods that knew nothing about him, telling him what to eat and when to sleep and watching his every move.  That was essentially the definition of parents, wasn’t it? 

Five or six years ago, he’d have given just about anything for a chance at that.  Now?  He couldn’t imagine ever trusting anyone to “take care” of him.  The idea didn’t appeal to him at all.  He knew how to take care of himself.  He’d been doing it for most of his life.  He had money and a place to live.  He went to school and always excelled in his studies.  He ate healthy, slept as much as he should and no more.  He handled his own shopping just fine and cleaned up after himself.  There was literally no need for him to have guardians.  He had it under control.

And it wasn’t like he would get away with going to Knockturn Alley again if he had guardians.  They would probably even try to curtail what he learned.  Merlin, what if they were “Light”?  Or worse, what if they were Dumbledore’s followers?

No, he wanted nothing to do with any guardians, and that wasn’t just his paranoia talking.  Even the best case scenario sounded like a nightmare.

That established, he now had to figure out what options he had if Snape did go to the Ministry with what he’d figured out.  Harry didn’t really think that he would, but he wasn’t sure.  The man had seemed shockingly _concerned_ about Harry’s home life ever since Halloween and he now had proof that he was right, even if it wasn’t proof that he could use at the moment.  Harry needed to figure out what options he would have, legally speaking, and then see what options he could create if he ignored the legality.

So…  First stop…

Pushing himself up off the soiled floor, Harry listened carefully to make sure he was alone, then left the stall and drew his wand.  He took a moment to focus and then carefully cast the laundering charm he’d taught himself before break so that he wouldn’t need to go to the launderette.  It was an excellent spell that had even the dirtiest clothes clean and sweet-smelling in seconds.  The downside was that the two times he’d miscast the spell, he’d completely destroyed the item he was attempting to clean.  Even Reparo hadn’t been able to put the decimated material back together.  He did _not_ need to be returning to his dorm in shredded trousers.

The spell worked perfectly and Harry made haste out of the bathroom.  Being in the dungeons, it took him only moments to find a parseltongue passageway to slip into, and from there it was only a few minutes’ walk to Salazar’s quarters.

As soon as he was in the library, he sat down at the table facing Salazar’s portrait and looked up at the man somewhat desperately.  When the portrait raised a curious eyebrow at him, he launched into a quick explanation of his situation.

Salazar nodded thoughtfully when Harry had finished.  “I understand your concern.  Unfortunately, given your fame, the odds are high that Dumbledore would intervene to either see you sent back to your filthy forsaken relatives or ensure that you go to an apostate family that reveres him.  Either option would be detrimental.”

Harry was pretty sure that Slytherin meant detrimental to the portrait’s plans and not Harry’s well-being, but he settled on merely casting a brief glare at the tabletop in front of him.  Salazar was far too useful to alienate regardless of how Harry’s pride smarted at being swallowed so often.

“You’ll need to look up the applicable laws in the _British Wizarding Tome of Law_.  It’s a self-updating text kept apprised of even the smallest change to law, policy, or procedure.”

Harry blinked in surprise, “You don’t already have one?  I mean, if it’s self-updating…”

Salazar gave him that disappointed look that he always sported when he thought Harry should have been able to figure out an answer on his own.  Happily, he did answer, which he sometimes did not in these instances.  “It is very expensive, child,” he drawled irritably.  “The enchantments on it are considerable and they don’t exactly become obsolete, so no one sells them secondhand.  Furthermore, the British Ministry has only existed since 1707.  The last heir of mine that had that kind of money at hand graduated in 1597.  I do have a pristine self-updating copy of the _Wizards’ Council: Codes, Decrees, and Commands_ if you believe that may be helpful.”

Harry frowned at the sarcastic portrait, but he was decently used to this kind of biting sarcasm and sardonic censure when the portrait felt that Harry was being “idiotic”.  “Would the library upstairs have a copy?” he asked in a measured tone.

“They do,” Salazar nodded.  “It would be a useful item for you to acquire, however, as you will not always be within Hogwarts when you seek such knowledge.  It is not possible to copy the enchantments that make it self-updating – at least, not with your extremely limited skill – but you’ve fortune enough to purchase two copies.”

Harry just nodded.  Salazar had already explained that it was Harry’s duty as his heir to contribute to the library.  It was heavily implied that his tutelage under Salazar would be impacted by his generosity.  Harry didn’t really begrudge the portrait.  He basically existed solely to guide his heirs while they attended Hogwarts and he couldn’t do that effectively without knowledge of the outside world, which he gathered primarily through the books in this library.  The contents of everything in the library was assimilated into the knowledge of the portrait through the runes used to add them, which allowed him to remain an effective teacher throughout the centuries, and not only on ancient history.

“Excellent,” Salazar nodded, satisfied.  “So, in addition to ordering those books for yourself and for this library, begin your research in the library above.  Educate yourself on everything you can find regarding the laws that apply specifically to underage wizards, particularly those regarding custody, of course.  Next, transfer all of your most valued possessions to either your Abode or your shoulder bag and keep them on your person at _all times_ so that you are prepared should the eventuality arrive that you need to disappear suddenly.”

Harry swallowed, but nodded, committing the portrait’s instructions to memory.

“Finally, write to your account manager at Gringotts and request a ledger of all your property holdings.  You need to be aware of all of your options if the time does come that you need to fall off the map.  We can discuss further options both legal and otherwise after we’ve both had a chance to become familiar with the applicable laws.”

Harry nodded and was on the point of leaving when he felt like he was forgetting something.  He paused with a frown and took a moment to sift through the rather significant pile of mental notes he’d acquired recently.  He hit upon it after a few seconds and looked to the portrait again.  “Rhast told me that he was a basilisk, but I don’t really know anything about them…”

Salazar lifted a thoughtful eyebrow, then gestured to Harry’s right.  “The fifth shelf on that wall, third row up from the bottom, twelfth book from the left.  It will tell you everything that you need.”

“It’s written in Latin,” Harry observed irritably, though he kept his tone measured.  Salazar became very annoyed when Harry said anything that he construed as “whining” about his studies.

“It will serve the dual purpose of educating you on your chosen topic and improving your understanding of written Latin,” Salazar pointed out sadistically – at least, it seemed sadistic to Harry.  He loved learning, but the amount of language studies Salazar had been pushing on him since their first meeting was a bit much, even for him.  Still, the knowledge was incredibly useful.  Until 1728 most books in Britain were written and published exclusively in Latin.  At that point, the Ministry had intervened in one of their myriad attempts of embracing the Statute of Secrecy by “blending” with the muggles – which essentially equated to trying to act like them.

With a strained smile, Harry thanked the portrait and carefully copied the book Salazar had pointed him toward.  He’d work on studying it later tonight if he had time.  At the moment, he was much more concerned with figuring out how to protect himself against Child Services if the need arose.

* * *

**Saturday, 11 January**

“Harry?  Are you okay?”

Hermione’s hesitant inquiry drew Harry from his rather horrified stupor.  He looked up blankly to find her and Neville both watching him with mild concern from across the library table.  He’d been buried in the Tome of Law every free moment since the previous afternoon.  Unfortunately, the book was too expensive to be taken out of the library, so he’d not been able to spend the night reading it as he’d have liked.  Instead, he’d used the time to send to Flourish and Blotts for two copies of the book, but he wasn’t likely to receive them until Wednesday or Thursday, so he was stuck using the school copy until then.

The book was _not_ an easy read.  Similar to what he’d learned a few years ago about muggle law, it may as well have been written in its own language.  His vastly improved command of Latin actually helped quite a bit.  There was a lot of terminology written in or derived from Latin and he was sure that without knowing Latin, it would have been almost prohibitively complicated.  As it was, it took him much longer than he’d like to wade through the heavy text.  It was well after lunch before he’d come across something that properly applied to his situation.

Now, he nearly wished he hadn’t.  What he’d found was leagues away from being _pleasant_.  It was actually more in the realm of horrific.  From the manner of the applicable laws, it was clear that the wizarding world viewed muggles much like helpless babes that needed to be sheltered and protected from those magicals who would abuse them.  The horrific part was that there were no provisions made for those who truly _were_ helpless children.  From the looks of what he was reading, the Dursleys couldn’t even be prosecuted for child abuse in the wizarding world.  The most that could happen is that they could be tried through the muggle courts, but even that was unlikely given the number of bylaws and provisions afforded to the fucking muggles to protect them from the wizards.  If sufficient evidence was found, Harry could be removed from their home, but it was unlikely they would ever be made to pay for what they’d done.

He was planning to pay them back personally, of course, preferably without any sort of law enforcement being aware of it, but that didn’t change the fact that the laws were completely biased _against_ their own people!  It was disgusting.

“Do you have any idea how many laws and bylaws exist in the wizarding world for the sole purpose of protecting the muggles?” he asked incredulously.

Hermione frowned uncertainly.  The morning after they’d returned to Hogwarts, she’d seemed to mostly bounce back from their argument on the train.  She’d not mentioned anything more about it and, apart from a sudden absence of her scathing little remarks about the wizarding world, the subject had been dropped. Harry rather suspected that she was merely using the time to gather more information for her rebuttal. “I haven’t really had a chance to read too much on wizarding law yet, no,” she said cautiously.

“A lot,” Harry hissed angrily, mindful of the fact that they were in the library. “Anyone would think they were helpless infants with the way our world caters to them.”

“Well,” Hermione said hesitantly, “they don’t have magic. They are kind of helpless against wizards.”

Harry sent her such a glare that she actually flinched back in her chair. “And here I’d been giving you so much credit for intelligence,” he sneered.

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“Harry,” Neville interceded cautiously, “what are you saying?”

“I am saying,” Harry nearly growled, “that the wizarding world does not seem to comprehend the fact that Muggles don’t need magic to be dangerous. They are not helpless, and our propensity to treat them as such is unforgivable. Sure, there are plenty of Muggles that are perfectly amiable and perfectly harmless.” He said when Hermione looked about to speak up. “There are also dangerous Muggles. Racist Muggles. Murderous Muggles. And the fact of the matter is that just that minority of Muggles are enough to outnumber the entire magical population.”

“That doesn’t mean that the _majority_ of the muggles shouldn’t still be protected,” Hermione argued, though there was an undertone of wary uncertainty in his voice that hadn’t been there previously when they’d argued.  Harry figured she was getting used to losing arguments against him by now.

“What about protecting _our own_ people from the muggles?” Harry all but growled at her.  “How is _that_ not a priority.”

“But… our people have magic,” Hermione frowned.  “Why would they be in danger?”

Harry grit his teeth and fought down the urge to throw the very heavy Tome of Law at the naïve little girl.  “A muggle with a gun is more dangerous than at least eighty percent of the wizarding world, Hermione, and that’s only accounting for _adult_ witches and wizards.  What about children?  Not only do we not know much magic, but it’s literally _illegal_ for us to use magic _at all_ when we’re not in school.  It’s doubly illegal if we use it in front of muggles.  And even if we might get an exception for self-defense, what about those of us endangered by our own legal guardians?” he all but hissed in his fury, taking slight satisfaction from the way the muggleborn was paling.  “How are we supposed to defend ourselves against people in our own home?  People that our own government doesn’t want to acknowledge could ever hurt us?  What then?”

Deathly silence engulfed the table for a long moment before Hermione muttered a heartbroken little, “Oh, Harry…” with tears in her eyes as well as her voice.

Harry blushed slightly as he realized how much he’d exposed himself with that little rant.  Shoving himself to his feet, he planted his hands on the tabletop and leaned closer to his companions on the opposite side.  “This is all a secret,” he warned in a deadly tone, then closed his book with a thump and snatched up the tome and his bag, leaving in search of another secluded corner of the library where he could continue his research away from Hermione’s sorrowful gaze and Neville’s pensive one.

While Hermione’s ignorant bigotry made him increasingly inclined to distance himself from the annoying heathen, Harry couldn’t help but feel increasingly satisfied with Neville’s quiet thoughtfulness.  Harry’s initial assessment of the boy’s potential seemed to be ringing true.

At the moment, though, all he wanted was to continue improving his understanding of the laws to which he was subject.  He had a long way to go in fully understanding it all, but he was already becoming convinced that he would back Voldemort if the man ever showed himself again.  Apart from the whole squib/muggleborn issue and the threat posed by the Illuminati, or whatever they called themselves these days, Harry was truly beginning to understand just how fucked up the wizarding world really was.  Worthless bloody Light wizards!

This policy of coddling the muggles, Harry could only liken to the muggle’s animal rights activists going about preaching about protecting the animals above and beyond human beings.  But at least the muggles as a whole put humans above the animals.  Light wizards had managed to push through laws that would allow the muggles to torment and even murder wizards – even wizarding _children_ – with virtually no recrimination.

Well, maybe it was a bit unfair to compare muggles to animals, but it was accurate for the fact that so many wizards seemed to view the muggles much as the muggles viewed animals.  Lesser beings, mostly harmless and certainly helpless against their evolutionary superiors.

With a sigh, Harry pushed those thoughts from his head.  His reasoning was starting to become circular and it was getting him nowhere.  For now, he needed to learn everything that he could about his legal options.  Then Salazar would help him investigate his not so legal options.  No matter what, he was determined that he would never go back to the Dursleys, and if he ever ended up under anyone else’s guardianship, it was going to be on his own terms.  If not, he was going to disappear.

He just had to figure out how to do that without getting caught by some magical means he didn’t anticipate.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one was a little short, but at least it's here, right?


End file.
